The End of the Line
by CosmosisJane
Summary: The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Mutant!Reader. You have been conscripted into the search for Bucky Barnes several months after the catastrophe at the Triskelion by Captain America. What you initially think will be a brief involvement turns into a struggle beyond your wildest imaginings once you manage to track down the elusive Winter Soldier...
1. Chapter 1

_The End of the Line_

The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Reader

Part I

Chapter 1

* * *

><p>"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."<p>

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

><p>"No," you reply, taking another sip of the pitch black espresso set out on the table.<p>

"You haven't even looked at the list of—"

"Westchester… our _school_… is no place for ex-spies and intelligence officers. We work with children, _troubled_ children more often than not."

The espresso is bitter, bright, and sharp on your tongue and you can feel the tendrils of caffeine starting to snake through your system. You have to actively resist your body's instinctive reaction to purge what it recognizes as poison. Silly survival mechanisms. Always overreacting.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is—_was_—very well aware that you're not just running a school up there," the leather-clad man sitting across from you drawls, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his sunglasses. "We know all about your… extra-curricular activities."

"Then our rejection of your proposal should make _more_ sense, not less," you retort, placing the delicate cup back on its equally delicate saucer. "Our 'team' has very specific skill sets, and very specific abilities. The kind your average agents couldn't possibly compete with."

You smirk, imitating the man's posture. "Unless you're offering up the good Captain, or Black Widow. Barton, maybe. They have certain useful talents, to be sure."

"They're not a part of this," he snaps, suddenly defensive.

"Set loose, or finally broke free?"

Now he's smirking, looking off to the side before slowly allowing his gaze to drift back to yours. "Little of column A, little of column B."

You tip your head in acknowledgment of the truth.

You may feel some hostility and suspicion towards "The Spy," but you can also appreciate the position he's found himself in; the organization he helped build has suddenly fallen out from beneath his feet, revealing the ugly, snarling beast that is Hydra.

"Look, I respect that you're trying to find your people a home, but we're not the right fit. You have to see that," you offer diplomatically, feeling some of the tension drain away. "We've collaborated with your organization before, when doing so agreed with our own goals, but we're not in the business of espionage or assassinations."

You run your finger around the lip of the espresso cup, considering your words, weighing them carefully.

"What we do during our off hours is only done when we absolutely _must_. We don't go looking for fights. Mostly, we just want to be left alone."

He sighs, resigned. "I understand. I hope we can continue to count on your support in the future. When things get messy."

"That depends entirely on the nature of the mess," you reply, smiling. "But I suppose you can consider ours an open door policy. We're always available to talk, though I can't promise we'll join you and your merry band of vigilantes on every mission."

You swallow the last of the espresso and are preparing to leave when he speaks up again.

"Just a moment more, if you don't mind. There's someone else who'd like to talk to you…"

You snort as a figure two tables away stands, face cloaked in the shadows of his hoodie, and approaches.

"May I?" he asks, and you immediately recognize the voice.

"Of course, _Captain_…" you grind out, eyes narrowed at Fury as he tries—and fails—to hide a grin of amusement.

"Oh, this has nothing to do with me. In fact, I think he's insane to keep trying, but he's just so…"

"Determined?" The hooded man offers.

"Delusional," Fury corrects, standing and nodding at you. "My part in this discussion is over. Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."

"I'm sure you will," you manage, before remembering that you were told to be _cordial_. Also, you're now sharing a table with Captain America; fount of all that is wholesome and noble. The man might get his petticoats in a twist over a "civilian" such as yourself unleashing a litany of colorful swear words at his former employer, and no one wants that.

You switch your focus to the super soldier, knitting your fingers together in front of you and just _praying_ this conversation will be quick and to the point. You don't have anything against Rogers, but you know he has a certain lost puppy quality that makes it hard to say 'no' to his requests. He's just so damned _earnest_ and _stalwart_. Even Tony "I am God's Gift to the World" Stark jumps when the Captain (ever so politely) asks him to.

"What can I do for you, Captain Rogers?" you ask, as innocently as you can manage.

"I wanted to know if you—or one of your colleagues—could help me find someone. I'm no slouch when it comes to tracking a target, but I'm stumbling around in the dark here…" he trails off, one hand rubbing his chin in thought, faint creases at the edges of his eyes and along his forehead becoming more pronounced with worry.

"Who are you looking for?" you ask, hoping against Hope that it isn't who you suspect, because if its—

"Bucky. James. Um," he swallows. "Sgt. Barnes. You may also know him as Th-"

"_The Winter Soldier_," you intone, groaning. "You can't be serious."

"He disappeared after the helicarrier. I know he pulled me out of the water, I swear he did, but then he just… "He shakes his head, throat working against all the words that he wants to spill out onto the table but won't, because he's Captain America and stoicism is kind of his thing.

"From what I heard, he nearly killed you, which takes quite a bit of effort and intent, as far I can tell from past collaborations…"

"_Nearly_," he repeats, adding weight to the distinction. "He _nearly_ killed me. But he didn't. He held back and he pulled me out of the water—"

"You think he pulled you out of the water," you correct, holding a finger up like a wedge in the conversation.

"I _also_ think he's in New York," he says in a rush. "I think he was starting to remember things, and New York is the place he knows best. It's home. He's gotta be here. We've checked everywhere else, and it would make sense that he would be right under our noses the whole time…"

"And yet you can't pinpoint his location in the city…" You're a bit incredulous. If a legendary super soldier with direct ties and contacts to the (once) most powerful spy agency on the planet can't track his childhood friend and compatriot, you doubt anyone can.

"I don't understand it either, but he was trained to do things like this. To vanish. If he were easy to find, S.H.I.E.L.D. had decades to do so, and they didn't. Couldn't." He pauses, pressing his palms flat to the table. "I know there are people at your school who have… powers," he says in a whisper, leaning across the small table and rattling the espresso cup.

"Everyone at the school has powers," you remind him. "I would have to guess you're interested in the _cerebral_ kind, because our only 'tracker' is hardly your biggest fan, and he's a bit of a jerk. Someone would _die_ at the end of that mission, and the Canadian is damn near immortal."

"But your mentor, the Prof—"

"Is currently indisposed. And if you're thinking of the good Doctor, she might accidently turn your friend's brain to mush if she focuses too hard. You need a scalpel, not a sledgehammer."

"Do you have anyone in mind?" he asks, hope dripping from his words.

You hesitate, considering.

"I would need to discuss it with her. It would be dangerous, and she's very young… _Too_ young, to be frank. But she's mad for you and would probably kill me if she ever found out I turned you down," you babble, already selecting her contact information in your phone.

He bangs his fists on the table, grinning from ear-to-ear like a schoolboy.

"Fantastic, thank you. Thank you so much you have no idea how—"

The dialed line picks up, and the drowsy voice of your little sister warbles through. "Hullo?"

"Ana. It's 11 o'clock in the morning."

"Mhmm… It's Saturday," she reminds you.

"Hardly an excuse," you scold. "You have 3 reports due on Monday…"

"Already done. Finished them last night," she sighs into the phone. "God, you are _so_ annoying."

"So you keep reminding me," you look over at Rogers, shaking your head slightly in exasperation. "Ana... There's something I need to talk to you about, and it's serious."

You hear her inhale sharply and know she's just sat upright in her bed. "Are you going to let J and me go to the Justin Bieber concert?!"

"What?" you ask, wrinkling your nose. "No. God, no. I said it was _serious_, not completely stupid."

"You are the worst, you never let me—"

"I'm in the city with Steve Rogers," you interrupt, not in the mood for another teenage tantrum.

"Wh… what?"

"Yeah. Sitting with him right now drinking bloody espressos."

"You're joking," she accuses, anger replacing the confusion that had been there moments before. "This isn't funny…"

You hold the phone up to the Captain's face, nodding in what you hope is an understandable signal to prove that you are not, in fact, joking.

"Hello Ana!" he says brightly, imbuing the greeting with the "Aw shucks!" All-American goodness portrayed in his old wartime movie reels.

You return the phone to your ear.

"Am I still a liar?"

"… No. But, what are you doing in the city with _Captain America_? Are you two…? I mean, you can't be…"

"Is that _all_ you ever think about?" you ask, wondering how this conversation continues to slip away from you. How embarrassing.

"No, but—"

"Can I please get to the point of this phone call?"

"Um… yes?"

"Rogers is trying to pinpoint the location of a specific individual. He believes that individual is somewhere in the five boroughs."

"You want me to find him?" she asks, suddenly timid.

"Ideally, yes. But you'll have to be delicate about it, Ana. This man is excessively dangerous and not to be trifled with. If he even suspects that someone is poking around in his brain, there's no telling how he'd react," you warn.

She swallows hard and you swear you can hear her biting her nails through the phone. "Who am I looking for, exactly?"

"His name was James Buchanan Barnes. More recently, he's operated as The Winter Soldier," you answer. "He was Capt. Rogers' friend, way back when."

"I remember, from the museum last summer. His nickname was _Bucky_ back then. I thought he died…"

"That's what everyone thought, but, you know that stranger things have happened. He's very… confused and obviously dangerous. Capt. Rogers would like to help him, if he can, but first we have to _find_ him."

"It shouldn't be too hard. I can Google a picture of him. If I use that as my focus… It would help if I knew something else, though. Something personal."

You press the phone to your chest and tell Rogers what Ana needs to better her chances at locating Barnes.

"Tell her…" his cheeks redden slightly. "Tell her 'I'm with you 'til the end of the line.'" He offers no further explanation and you're not inclined to ask.

You relay the phrase to Ana.

"Okay…" she trails off and you can't suppress the shiver at what you know she's doing, and how she looks when she's doing it.

Your own abilities manifested in entirely different ways, as it often happens with the unstable X-gene, and you've never adjusted to the corpse-like state that Ana assumes when she slips her skin and 'walks' as an intangible, invisible mental projection. Without ever leaving her room, she can hitch a ride on a stranger's brainwaves and see what they see, feel what they feel.

"I can't believe I'm letting her do this…" you mutter.

"Thank you," Rogers says, and you can tell he means it, _really_ means it.

Silence stretches across the line and you find yourself straining to hear her breathe, ready to alert your colleagues at the school in the event something goes wrong.

"… I found him," she whispers, slowly drawing back into herself. "He's in really bad shape."

"Where is he, Ana?"

"An abandoned brownstone near the 9th Street train station, on 4th Avenue," she supplies, her voice growing stronger. "He's in Brooklyn."

"Anyone else nearby, anyone that could be a problem?"

"No," she replies. "He's alone. There was blood. _A lot_ of blood, and he's slipping between these awful nightmares that I think are more memory than subconscious fabrication, and—"

"Don't go back in there, you don't need to see any of that," you warn, already slapping a fistful of twenty dollar bills down on the table; many times more than your check will tally to.

"Steve," your eyes flash to his. "I need you to stay here." You return your attention to the phone. "Ana?"

"Yeah?"

"Excellent job. Keep the phone nearby in case I call."

"Thanks, okay," she says, and you can hear the pride in her voice as the rare compliment sinks in.

"Also, you can go to that ridiculous concert with your equally ridiculous friend next month. My treat."

"Oh my god, you are _so_ awesome!" she shouts, and you hang up to avoid listening to her irrational joy.

"I'm going to regret that," you opine, slipping the phone back into your jacket pocket.

"I'm going with you," Rogers insists, standing from his seat.

"No, you're not. From Ana's description, he's drifting between conscious states, reliving his worst memories. You want to help, I get it, but you'll end up doing more harm than good. You're like a gigantic walking, talking post-traumatic stress trigger. You can trail me, but keep your bloody distance," you warn, eyes flashing brightly enough so that he can see the change, see the warning there.

"He could hurt you."

"He can try," you say, glancing back at the clearly conflicted Rogers. "My ride is parked a few blocks down. Don't crowd me, but don't lose me either."

You start walking down the busy New York sidewalk at a brisk, purposeful pace. Your 1199 Superleggera is perched on the curb like an imposing bird-of-prey; all angles and glossy black carbon fiber, daring anyone stupid enough to try boosting it.

You're already pulling your riding gloves on, chosen more for style than utility. What was the threat of a few callouses to someone whose body would undo the damage almost as quickly as it occurred? Still, you'd learned the value of _appearing_ normal, though with such a flash set of wheels, the gloves probably wouldn't do much in the way of helping you blend in.

You pop your helmet on, painted the same deep black as the bike, and turn the engine over, pleased at the efficient, musical hum of the machinery.

"How am I supposed to keep up with you on _that_?" Rogers asks, gesturing to the Ducati superbike.

You shrug, "Run really fast?"

"Cute."

"I try," you smile from behind the helmet and slice into midtown traffic, cutting between cars, trucks, and beat up cabs like a hot knife through butter. A bike like this might not be terribly practical as a city ride, but it could out-maneuver almost anything else on the road.

You know the city fairly well, enough to navigate through several side streets and narrow alleys to avoid the worst of the traffic. You crisscross through W. 44th, 5th Avenue, and East 14th, Broadway, Canal, and then cross the Manhattan Bridge. You circumvent Flatbush Avenue with side streets because that stretch is always a complete cluster, and then cross over to 4th Avenue. Twenty minutes after leaving Midtown and you're slowly rolling through a neighborhood of mostly boarded up brownstones, no one but gangbangers and junkies drifting through the streets.

You're horribly out of place, but there isn't time to worry about possibly getting into a scuffle with the locals. You know how such a confrontation would end; your challenger (or _challengers_) rolling on the ground, cradling whichever bones you break first. Hopefully you can trust Rogers to keep their mitts off your bike, but he's nowhere in sight, and probably won't catch up for a few minutes yet.

There's no time to lose, so you dial Ana again.

"I'm in Brooklyn. Did you pick up on a number for whichever house he's in?"

"No," she responds. "But I got a glimpse of what it looked like on the outside. It's a three story, and black with soot or grime, I couldn't tell. The second step is cracked pretty badly, and the bars on the first story windows have all been pried from the stone. There was graffiti, too. A skull, maybe?"

"Thanks. Standby." You hang up again, wondering if she's annoyed at your continued brevity or pleased that you're treating her like a teammate on a mission instead of an annoying little sister.

A few blocks down and you find the house Ana had described. There's a long piece of plywood where the door once was, and it's clearly been pried loose at the bottom. It would be difficult for someone Sgt. Barnes' size to squeeze through, but not impossible.

"Once more into the breach," you whisper, pulling the board back and slipping into the darkness beyond.

Your eyes adjust immediately, and you know from experience that they'll appear more cat-like in such low lighting. Your ears perk as well, rounding slightly to catch soundwaves more efficiently. You could reverse the changes, but they'll help navigating the dilapidated building.

Also, there's a Russian-built, Hydra-appropriated weaponized "asset" somewhere in here, drowning in his own misery, and who knows how he'll react to a stranger with a funny accent interrupting his trauma-induced hallucinations.

You can feel the internal structures of your nasal cavity shifting as well. Apparently, the scent-processing part of your brain has detected something noteworthy and isn't content to wait for you to make the change yourself.

You inhale deeply and feel your stomach roil at the distinct smell of hard alcohol and fresh vomit.

And blood. There is no mistaking the iron tang hanging heavily the air. The last time you'd scented this much, you'd found a room full of bodies, stinking and leaking and rotting in a heap.

Glass and debris crunch under your feet. You could move silently if you wanted, but if Barnes is in any way conscious, you want him to hear you coming. You'll seem like less of a threat that way. At least you think that's how he'll interpret it.

Peering into room after room, you can't help but feel a pang of sadness at the ruin of what was once someone's home. The old-fashioned wallpaper has almost come completely free of the walls and black mold is swiftly colonizing the room, swallowing it up in toxic spores that only complete demolition will remedy.

There's the sound of something shifting in the room beyond, a subtle adjustment of weight that causes the ruined hardwood to creak in protest.

You peer around the entryway, and there he is.

Fetal position, back to the doorway, and surrounded by what appear to be _crates_ of Nikolai Vodka, pressing himself as far into the corner as possible. The indomitable, terrifying Winter Soldier. There's blood oozing from the deep slices around the juncture between shoulder and imposing metal arm, like he was trying to cut it free. The steady, but weak, pump of crimson fluid points to an arterial bleed, and you can't fathom how he's still alive.

"Seven hells," you swear, abandoning caution and rushing forward to tip his head back. "Sergeant? James? Can you hear me?"

His eyes are rolled back in the sockets and his skin is ashen. Even with all the augmentations and serums, he isn't healing fast enough to overcome the repeated severing of a vital artery. Judging by the gashes, he's reopened the wounds as they healed, more times than you can admit without being overcome with horror.

You improvise a tourniquet, pulling your belt free from your jeans and slipping it over the arm, pulling tight where the metal meets flesh.

"You stupid, selfish bastard," you grind out, gently removing the shards of glass from the torn flesh. None of them are embedded deeply enough to pose a significant threat. The most serious wounds were made with a knife.

You pull out your phone and call Ana. She picks up before the first ring is finished.

"I need a direct line, Ana. I need a push and then I need you to maintain it."

"For how long?" The worry in her voice, the _fear_, almost makes you abandon your newest plan, but he's _dying_, still trapped in his nightmares and that's no way for someone like Bucky Barnes to go out.

"How long can you manage?"

"15 minutes, and that's stretching it. I don't want to lose you," she stammers and you can already feel her inside your head, nudging gently, trying to convince your subconscious mind to _let go_, to be _moved_, and your body reacts as if she's trying to kill you (which she is, technically speaking), and it takes more willpower to tamp that down than you thought you possessed.

"Don't be gentle about it, Ana! Push!"

She shoves you out of your own body, and the severing of the connection is more than painful, it ratchets down your core self like fire and you feel the loss so deeply you'd almost prefer oblivion to another minute in such a state of _not-_ being.

But she's there again, guiding you to the soldier crumpled on the floor, twitching as the last of his life drains from his body. Another hard shove and suddenly you're standing again in the darkness. You can feel your legs, feel them rooted to the floor, as real and tangible as they ever were.

But this isn't _real_, and you know it. Ana has described this before, during the few times you two have actually spoken at length about her abilities.

Squinting in the darkness (which isn't really darkness at all, you remind yourself), you make out the faint shape of a body not far from where you're standing.

You cross the distance quickly and kneel to prop the shivering, shaking form up into a sitting position.

Pale blue eyes meet yours.

"You're not real," he rasps, then closes his eyes again. "Go away."

There's no blood in this place, no wounds save for the scars where his arm was severed all those decades ago. He's dressed in a black Kevlar uniform that appears to be something The Winter Soldier would wear on a mission.

"I am real," you offer, as gently as you can. You tell him your name, and that Steve asked you to help find him.

Those eyes snap open again and he growls, low in his throat.

"Shut up!" he barks.

"Stop, try to think. Steve is your friend, he only wants to help y—"

"I'm not who he says I am. I can't be—"

"You are, and some part of you knows it, or you wouldn't have crawled into this rattrap to die," you scold, holding his head between your hands as it lolls.

He stiffens and starts to scramble backward, further into a corner that isn't there.

"No! No, _please_, no more! _Please!_"

The darkness around you swirls and reforms into what seems to be a prison cell. Barnes is no longer on the floor, but hanging like a ragdoll from the ceiling, arms strung above him with a set of heavy chains. His feet don't touch the floor, and his own weight is straining the ligaments in his good arm. You can't tell if the metal one is being stressed, but there is thick, congealed blood caked around the shackle enclosing his remaining flesh-and-blood wrist, and as he turns in the air, you can see the flayed skin of his back. Some of the wounds are so deep, you can spot where the muscle has been stripped bare down to the bone.

You resist the urge to gag, to puke up your guts at the sight, reminding yourself that you've seen worse (a lie), and that this isn't real (it isn't, it isn't, _it isn't_).

You hear him whispering, still conscious somehow.

"Please, no more. Please… I'll do what you want… _Please_."

Some invisible force strikes out at him again and he swings wildly on the chains, back arching and a scream torn from his throat that is so raw, you almost feel the lash yourself.

You shake off the shock, reminding yourself that this has to stop, that _you_ have to stop it, and you don't have much time before Ana loses control over the link and pulls you out.

Barnes is struck again, and again, as you try to drown out the screams of pain and focus on the chain-that-isn't-really-a-chain, willing it to obey, to _change_, because in this place, a mind that is aware of itself and of where it is can alter the landscape, the story, the nightmare into whatever it wants. The trick is convincing the _other_ person's mind that it can change.

"Come on…" you grind out, and one of the chain links shatters, quickly followed by several more. Barnes drops to the ground and rolls, throat working in what looks like an attempt to scream again, but nothing escapes his lungs save for a shallow _hiss._

You scramble to him, lifting his head up and shifting him onto his side, keeping his savaged back from touching the ground.

"Please…" he whispers, staring up at nothing. "Please, just let me die. Just kill me."

"I can't do that," you reply, smoothing some of the matted hair from his eyes. "You're still needed. You have to come back."

He closes his eyes and a wave of fear, of pure panic and self-loathing washes over you, rising in your throat like bile, and you know it's _his_, that the lines separating you both is beginning to blur. Ana is losing control of the connection.

"Please, Sergeant. _James_. You need to fight."

And then, in a blink, you're back in the brownstone, kneeling on a moldering, blood-stained carpet.

Blue eyes are staring into yours and you can see that the flow of blood from the terrible wound is starting to slow. He won't heal as quickly as Rogers, but at least with him conscious, he has a chance.

"You're really here," he exhales, and the smell of alcohol is nearly overwhelms the other unsavory scents assaulting your nose.

You switch off your scent receptors with minimal effort and breathe easy for the first time in what feels like hours.

He's shaking and wild-eyed, glance flicking from the corners of the room, to the doorway, back to you. He's still barely clinging to rational thought and you worry that he could slip back into a waking nightmare at any moment.

"We need to get you out of here, Sergeant. Can't go to a hospital, but I should be able to manage a patch-job without leaving you too ugly," you reply. "Can you stand?"

He tenses and shifts slightly on the floor, trying to get his legs to obey.

"…No," he concedes, looking away in what you can only assume is disgust at his own weakness.

"Well, you've lost a lot of blood and done yourself a serious injury. I can help you stand, but this would be easier if Rogers could assist…"

"Steve's here?"

"Of course I am," a solemn voice calls from the hallway.

"I thought I told you—" You start, then shake your head. "Oh, whatever. Did you drive or actually run all the way here?"

"I drove," he responds, stepping into the room, both hands open at his side. He's showing Barnes that he has no weapons. "Heya, Buck."

"Hey, pal," the former Hydra assassin responds, and both men look shocked at the relaxed, almost _familiar_, tone.

"Yes, lovely, but could we postpone the dewy-eyed reunion until Sergeant Barnes isn't at risk of bleeding out or slipping into a coma?"

"You're rude," Barnes observes, then closes his eyes for a moment. "But you're right. I don't know how long I'll be this lucid. It comes and goes."

"We'll get you help for that, Bucky. We're gonna fix this, I promise," Steve finally closes the distance between them and helps lift his friend to his feet, expending about as much effort as a normal person would while picking up an infant.

"Do you have a safe house or somewhere we can take him?" you ask. There are places your own team has stashed away, with medical supplies and food, but they're almost always occupied by various individuals as they drift through the area. The Professor has always had a hard time turning away strays.

"Yeah, not far from here. I'll get him into the car, you follow on the bike."

"Can you handle him on your own, if he-?"

Barnes tenses and then hangs his head. "Not even on your best day, Rogers."

"Oh good, he's making jokes now," you drawl, scowling at both men.

"I liked you better when you were only in my head," Barnes snarls.

You sigh and begin to make your way out of the broken-down house, Bucky strung carefully between yourself and Rogers.

With all the delicacy you can muster, you help load Barnes into Rogers' car; a nondescript grey Buick with Oklahoma tags. You raise an eyebrow at the vehicle, silently asking where in Hell he got it, but he only shrugs in response.

You lean in over Barnes and lift his flesh hand, pressing it hard against the oozing wound at his shoulder.

He snarls in pain and his eyes snap back open. A tendon in his neck strains and you can tell he's resisting the urge to bury a knife in your eye socket.

"Keep pressure on this," you explain. "You can obviously withstand a lot of damage, but you're dancing on a razor's edge, here."

He swallows hard, considering your words, then nods. "Okay."

"What I saw in there," you begin, shaking your head, voice dropping to a volume only meant for him to hear. "I'm sorry that happened to you, Sergeant. No one should have to—"

"_Survive that_," he cuts in. "Or remember it." He looks away and you take it as the dismissal it's meant to be.

You shut the passenger door and look over the roof at Rogers, who was obviously waiting (politely, of course) for you to finish your conversation.

"Be quick," you instruct. "He's strong, and I think he's willing to fight a little longer, but he's not immortal."

"House is in Queens," Steve informs you. "Forest Hills. You know the area?"

"I've been in that neighborhood a few times," you answer, thinking of the wise-cracking kid in red-and-blue spandex who calls those streets 'home.' That had been a fun mission, despite the knock-down, drag-out fight that had actually left you exhausted for the first time in a long time.

"10824 68th Avenue. Brick colonial."

You nod and trot a few blocks down to your bike. There's a couple of kids gathered around it, snapping pictures on their cell phones.

"This your ride?" one of them asks, looking at you with obvious doubt.

"Yes."

"What you do for a living?" he asks.

"I'm a teacher," you respond with a grin. The kids move back as you swing a leg over the seat of the bike and get your helmet on.

"For real?" the same kid asks, shaking his head. "No teachers at my school have a ride like that."

"Different kind of school; different kind of teacher."

"It pays good though," he says, nodding to himself.

You rev the engine—much to the delight of the kids, who immediately start taking more pictures on their phones—and peel out into the street, heading back toward Steve's car. He's already at the end of the block, idling at a stop sign, but hits the gas when he catches you in the rearview.

It's not a terribly long ride to Queens, even with evening traffic starting to build up, and Rogers seems to know a few shortcuts.

When you reach the safe house, you can't help but wonder how much S.H.I.E.L.D. had spent on it (property like this in any of the boroughs is never cheap) and how they managed to keep it under their ownership now that the agency has been dissolved. Probably something Fury and Romanoff arranged, under several false names and deed transactions.

There's no driveway or garage to speak of, so you jump the curb and bring the bike around the side of the house, behind a long, well-maintained hedge. Leaving it out in plain sight would probably attract unwanted attention.

You dismount, stash your helmet, and meet Rogers and Barnes at the front of the house. Barnes is starting to resist Rogers' assistance, swearing at him in a mix of Russian and English.

"Quickly," you hiss, and prop up Barnes on the other side, manhandling him enough to get him inside the house without things devolving into a brawl. Thankfully, he's still pretty weak from blood loss, but even a "pretty weak" Winter Soldier is a force to be reckoned with.

"Bucky…" Steve starts, trying to pin his good arm down as the injured man tries to take a swing at him. "Buck, come on."

"Kitchen," you direct, herding them both to the back of the house, where you'd spotted the gleam of stainless steel appliances.

"Shouldn't we get him into a bed?" Steve asks, pulling his head back just in time to avoid another swing.

"No. Kitchen table will be easier to stitch him up on, and we'll have a close supply of water, heat, etcetera," you explain, grunting as Barnes manages to twist your arm hard enough to snap your ulna in several places. There's a short burst of intense discomfort before you turn your pain receptors off. A few seconds more, and the damage has been erased; arm good as new.

"I heard that," Steve says, referring to the sound of the bone breaking. "You okay?"

"Perfectly fine," you reply, and cast a sidelong glance at the spitting, swearing, struggling Barnes. "_Don't do that again, you fucking lunatic_," you tell him in Russian.

He starts, staring at you, shocked at the unexpected order and the language it was delivered in.

"We're trying to help you, remember?" you finish, before finally reaching the kitchen.

"_Do whatever you want_," he snarls. "_I'm not your dog anymore_."

"He thinks we're Hydra," you tell Steve. "That we're trying to wipe him again."

"Jesus, no! Buck, never. We're not…" Rogers is clearly frustrated.

"Who knows how many times he fought them off when they dragged him to one of their secret bunkers or labs to torture all traces of James Barnes out of his head?" you snap, disgusted and furious. "Do you people have an estimate on how many of them are still left?"

"Too many," Steve answers. "I'll get him on the table. I don't think there's anything in this house that'll keep him still, though."

"Just hold him down for a moment," you instruct, pulling your phone out of your jacket once more.

A minute ticks by and you're back on the line with Ana.

"We've taken him to a safe house, but he's combative. He doesn't see us as _us_," you explain. "I need another push, to bring him out of it or I'll never be able to get him patched up."

"Got it," she says, and you think you detect a hint of exhaustion in her voice. This is probably the most she's ever flexed her psychic muscles, but you're proud that she doesn't complain, doesn't hesitate.

She's a good kid, and you can only hope you played some small part in shaping her character.

There's no delicacy in her push this time; she's more sure of herself, of what to do, and in a fraction of second, you're outside yourself being funneled towards Barnes.

You're in. The room isn't the kitchen anymore; it's a… bank vault? You raise a brow at the walls of safe deposit boxes, the reinforced cage and vault door beyond.

In the center of the room is a row of computers and monitors, bio-metric tracking programs blinking on the screens. And a chair.

"Oh no…" you breathe, as the chair is suddenly filled with The Winter Soldier, his metal arm being prodded by a technician. Without warning, the Soldier is throwing the technician across the room and every gun is raised at his head. He doesn't make another move and seems oblivious to the panic he's caused.

A voice buzzes in your ear, though no one in the room seems to be speaking.

"Mission report."

Barnes doesn't answer.

"Mission report, now!"

Still no answer. Then he's thrown in the chair, head snapped to the side like he's been struck. Slowly, deliberately, he rights himself, though he looks no more coherent now than before as far as you can tell.

"The man on the bridge," he says quietly. "Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment," the voice answers.

"I knew him," Barnes says, more to himself than anyone else.

"Your work has been a gift to Mankind. You helped shape the century."

You see doubt flicker across Barnes' face. He's starting to dismantle the false identity of The Winter Soldier. Things aren't making sense, these _people_ aren't making sense.

"Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos," the disembodied voice says. "Tomorrow morning, we're gonna give it a push. But if you don't do your part, I can't do mine."

Barnes continues to stare at nothing, and you're not sure he's even hearing this faceless lunatic.

"And Hydra can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

"But I knew him," Barnes says again, finally lifting his eyes to stare at an empty space in the room, where someone must have once stood, someone who is missing now, for whatever reason. Something like a smile twists his mouth, and you can't recall ever seeing someone so conflicted over the emotion before._  
><em>

"Prep him," the voice says.

One of the technicians, doctors, whatever they are, protests, saying he's been out of cryofreeze too long.

In the most infuriatingly nonchalant tone, the voice says, "Then wipe him, and start over."

Barnes is offered a bite guard, and you can see the anger in his eyes as he accepts it, can feel the panic as they push him back in the chair, as he is locked in place. His chest heaves as a mask sizzling with arcs of blue electricity is lowered over his head and face. He remembers this and is terrified.

A man wearing a bow-tie enters a command into the bank of computers and the Soldier starts to scream. The smell of burning hair and skin makes you want to retch, but more than anything, you're consumed with the desire to _hurt_ the people who did this, who are capable of doing it to another human being.

But this is only a memory, not much different from a dream or a nightmare; just a series of images and impressions drawn up by the subconscious and strung together in a somewhat coherent order (and sometimes not). You can't change what really happened, but you _can_ change this. Not permanently, you can't rewrite his memories, but you can end this particular recollection.

With a start, you realize all the men in the vault are looking at you.

"Who…?" one of them asks, and in a second, he's dead, after you pump a round into his chest and two to the head with the gun you didn't have before.

The room erupts into chaos, because even though this didn't happen, Barnes' brain is filling in the gaps, continuing the memory with what probably would have happened if this were real. The mind's capacity for self-deception is _astounding_.

You move, snarling and shooting, kicking, breaking, tearing open and crushing. There is nothing beautiful or delicate about this. This is all savagery and skill, and it's what you were born to do.

Moments tick by and the room finally stills. They're all dead, and you're left breathing hard, trying to quash the giddy joy that always seems to bubble up when you fight like this, when the shifting is totally instinctive and you stop trying to undo what your body knows it _has to do_ to survive. It's so much neater, and less terrifying, when it's a controlled change, a movement from one form to another, complete and fully-realized.

But left to its own devices, your body rarely completes a shift. It draws on what it needs, nothing more. Pinned to the ground by someone bigger and heavier? Grow venom glands in the roof of your mouth and spit a blinding cocktail of chemicals into their face. Someone trying to drown you? Grow gills. Starving to death and can't find any food? Develop chloroplasts and chlorophyll to convert sunlight into energy. There is no limit to the genetic bag of tricks your body can tap into.

If evolution has encountered it, you can use it to your advantage.

Others with similar abilities are content to change their face, or their voice, but you? You are a master artist, sculpting your own genetic code however you need or want to.

The gun is forgotten, either lost in the scuffle or disappeared when your subconscious remembered that you didn't need a firearm to bring your enemies down. The machine is still frying Barnes' brain, so you rip it off of his face, shove it to the ground in a shower of sparks and billowing smoke.

You face the computer and release the restraints on his arms, turning to find him lying perfectly still, save for the shallow rise-and-fall of his chest as he breathes.

"Sergeant Barnes?" you ask, gently pushing the chair back up so he's mostly upright. "James?"

Slowly, groggily, his eyes open. He spits out the bite guard, panting behind bared teeth.

"Where…?" he croaks.

"Just a dream," you tell him. "A bad memory."

"I don't remember anything like this," he says, finally absorbing the scope of the damage to the vault and its occupants.

"Well," you start, trying to think of a way to explain this without totally overwhelming him. "Because this is only a memory, and because I'm aware that it's a memory—and not _real_—it can be changed, at least long enough to pull you out of it. I'm afraid this version won't supplant the original."

He's shivering, still fighting to catch his breath.

"It was always like this. Always this bad," he observes. "I didn't always remember Steve, but other things… Brooklyn, the war, the Howling Commandos. I'd start to remember, and they—" He turns quickly in the chair and you can see his stomach heave as it tries to empty itself of what isn't there.

"I refused at first," he continues, still turned away from you. "The Russians tried to make me forget the old-fashioned way," he says, his voice quiet.

"The beating I saw earlier…" you supply, feeling your own throat constrict at the memory.

"That and worse," he says, finally lying back in the chair. "How do we get out of here?"

You sigh. "We wake up. We have a 15 minute window, more-or-less, but it's hard to keep track of time here. We'll be in this place, and then we won't be."

"How are you here?" he asks, eyes closing against the harsh overhead light.

"My sister can… well, it's sort of like astral projection, I suppose."

"That's not real," he grumbles.

"Oh, it's real. And hardly the weirdest ability around," you inform him. "Anyway, she escorted me here, in a sense. She's too young to see this kind of stuff, so I insisted on doing it myself."

He's quiet for a long moment, considering your words.

"Thanks," he says. "I never expected to be rescued."

"Well, you make a terrible damsel-in-distress," you chuckle darkly.

He glances at you. "No, seriously. I stopped hoping Steve or the Commandos would find me within weeks of being captured. I gave up."

You look over at him, profoundly sad at the admission. "It wasn't… He didn't abandon you, James. He crashed that plane into the Arctic not too long after you died. Almost died."

"I know," he admits. "I saw the exhibit at the museum in D.C., read a few books about it too. Thought they might jog my memory."

"Did it help?"

"Not really. Things sort of… come back in flashes."

You study the apparatus that had been used during the "wipe."

"I bet if we did a CT scan of your brain, we'd find _a lot_ of neural scarring," you offer. "If you can heal even a fraction as quickly as Rogers, your body is repairing the damage. Though…" you trail off, trying to recall your coursework in brain imaging techniques and traumatic brain injury symptoms and reparative processes.

"What?"

"It probably won't ever be completely back to normal," you finish. "Even Captain America has scars that don't fade."

He swallows hard. "Fair enough."

You feel a tug at the corners of your mind.

"Time's up," you tell him, recognizing Ana's touch. "See you on the other side."

The last thing you see is the momentary look of panic on his face, knowing he's about to be left behind again. But then you're back in the kitchen of the safe house, and he's stopped struggling against Steve, relaxed on the sturdy chef's island in the center of the room.

"Welcome back," Rogers says, looking at you and then to Barnes. "You okay?"

"No," Barnes says. "Not remotely."

"But you're here. You know us. Right?"

"Yeah," he sighs. "I know you."

The look of relief, of unadulterated _happiness_ on Steve's face is so saccharine, you think you might go into diabetic shock for having witnessed it.

"Rogers, if you could fetch whatever medical supplies are available, I'd appreciate it," you interrupt, shattering the moment. "I especially need clean gauze, suturing supplies, and disinfectant. A round of antibiotics would be useful, too."

"On it," he says, dashing out of the kitchen on his new mission.

"You a doctor or something?" Barnes asks, turning his head to look at you.

"Technically, no. But I'm the best you've got for now," you reply.

"Perfect," he groans, loosening the belt around his shoulder.

"Leave that," you scold. "You might not be spraying blood all over the appliances, but we need to keep as much of the red stuff _inside _as possible. I don't know if this place stocks any plasma or donor blood."

"It does!" Steve chirps, bounding back into the kitchen, his arms laden with medical kits and boxes of sterile bandages. "Pretty sizeable stock of O-Neg in the basement's cold storage," he adds. "How much do you need?"

"We'll start with half a liter, so bring up a bag. He's not bleeding too badly anymore, but it'll help replace what he's lost," you say, considering a few other items you've made mental note of. You notice a portable blood warmer in the pile of equipment and set it up.

"How much of that vodka did you drink the last 24 to 48 hours?" you ask, grabbing a pen light out of Steve's mountain of supplies and checking Barnes' pupil reaction. They're a bit sluggish, but that's to be expected.

"I wasn't keeping track," he grouses, pulling his head away from your grasp.

"Educated guess," you retort, grabbing his chin more firmly and turning his head back toward you to continue your examination.

"_A lot_," he hisses.

Steve slips out of the room to fetch the donor blood, and your expression softens.

"I'm trying to help you, Sergeant. I'm sorry if you find all this intrusive, but I'm only here because I _want_ to be."

"Why?" he demands.

You click the light off and drop it back down on the counter.

"Because you need the help," you shrug. "It's that simple for me."

"Liar," he accuses, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"Fine. I already told you that I don't believe anyone deserves what was done to you. I also know that Rogers is a good man, maybe one of the best, and _he_ believes that _you're_ the best he's ever known. You're family to him, and I get that, I understand how desperate a person can become when they think they've lost their family. When they believe they failed to protect the people they love."

"Your sister," he says, brow crinkling in thought.

"All I have left," you explain. "And I would do _anything_ to protect her. That's how Steve feels about you. I understand that, maybe better than anyone else, save for yourself."

"Okay," he nods, finally resigned to cooperate, to trust you.

Carefully, methodically, you begin to peel off the layers of Kevlar and tactical gear he's wearing, tossing it all in the furthest corner of the kitchen, much to Barnes' annoyance.

"Don't start," you warn, cutting him off before he can complain about the rough treatment of his gear. "It's all filthy and ought to be burned."

"You're not burning my stuff," he grumbles, sucking in a little breath as you start to wipe down his arms and chest with a damp bit of towel.

"Should have treated it with a bit more care, then," you snap back. "Instead of rolling around in that pit. I have to get _you_ cleaned up first, or I'll run the risk of all kinds of nasty infections."

You finish quickly, deciding he can have a proper scrub once all his wounds are closed and dressed. The more shallow slices from the broken glass are already scabbing over, but some of the knife wounds near his metal arm look inflamed and a bit yellow around the edges.

"What were you trying to do?" you ask, preparing your suture kit to close the worst of the wounds first.

"I don't know, I was drunk," he answers. "Maybe you should wait for Steve to come back. I don't want to hurt you, but I can't always control my reactions."

You smirk, shaking your head. "You can't hurt me, not really."

There's a long, awkward pause and then he finally asks.

"Mutant, huh?" and despite listening for it, you don't detect any hint of revulsion or fear.

"10 points," you answer dryly, nodding at Rogers as he re-enters the kitchen with a bag of blood. "You don't sound particularly incredulous."

"Read some newspaper articles about you people," he says, wincing. "Sorry, that came out wrong."

You shake your head, "I've heard worse. And we are 'a people.' Sort of."

"Your sister is too?" he asks. "That's why she can do… whatever it is that she does."

"Project," you supply. "That's the technical term. It's falls into the telepathic family of psychic abilities."

"Jesus," he breathes. "The world got a lot weirder—no offense—while I was… You know."

"Winter Soldiering?" you ask, and Steve shoots you a disapproving look.

Barnes laughs a little. "Yeah, I guess."

You put the suture down and show Steve how to use the warmer to make the blood useable. A few minutes later, everything is set and you start an I.V. line into his flesh arm, satisfied when the color starts to return to his face.

"We'll get some fluids and electrolytes into you, too," you explain. "You don't seem intoxicated, but if you did actually drink as much as I suspect, your kidneys and liver can only do so much before they start to fail… When was the last time you urinated?"

"Seriously?" Steve asks, embarrassed by the question.

"Yes, seriously. It's medically relevant. I'm not asking out of personal curiosity, Rogers."

He just shakes his head and leans back against the granite-topped counter behind him.

"I don't know that either," Barnes answers. "I was so out of it, I probably just… Y'know. Right there."

You nod, once again finding yourself feeling sorry for him.

"Well, let's get you stitched up, get a round of antibiotics in your system, and then we'll try water and sports drinks. If you can urinate normally within a few hours, I don't think we'll need another I.V."

"That word again," Rogers mutters, and you swear you can see him blushing. He catches your critical look and shrugs. "Sorry. I'm still not used to hearing women talk like that."

"Like medical professionals?"

"Like… I don't know. Sometimes I have to force myself not to break out into a nervous sweat when I talk to Natasha about stuff. It's just…"

"Different," Barnes injects. "Carter was an oddball in our day, and she's practically Sandra Dee compared to modern dames."

"Wow, you just used that word in a completely non-ironic way," you drawl, filling a small syringe. "I'm impressed." You lean in to inject a few spots around his shoulder before catching the panicked look in his eyes.

"Just a local anesthetic," you assure him. "To take the sting out of the sutures."

"Okay," he breathes and closes his eyes.

You look up at Steve. "Your people hunting these pricks down?"

"Yep," he says, nodding. "Every day."

You begin applying the anesthetic, careful not to probe too close to the wounds themselves.

"How does one get in on an operation like that?"

"Just ask," Rogers answers. "But you told Fury that you aren't inclined to go looking for fights."

"No," you correct, finishing the last few injections. "I told Fury that the _organization_ I belong to doesn't go looking for fights. I wouldn't be representing them or their interests."

You toss the used syringe in the sink.

"This would be for my own personal satisfaction."

"Well, I'd be glad to have you along. You're certainly useful in a scuffle," he says, offering a lopsided grin.

"You're not too bad yourself," you return, unable to suppress your own smirk.

"God, get a room," Barnes groans, starting a little as you begin the first set of sutures. Your stitches are small and neat, drawing the gashes closed in quick succession.

"Don't be a child," you huff, tying off the third set and starting the fourth. You look back up at Rogers. "I'll ask for an extended sabbatical. Charles will know what I'm up to, but I don't think he'll object. He has a thing about people who use manipulation and fear to control others. Kind of a sore spot."

He nods watching as you continue to repair some of the damage Barnes had done in his drunken rage. Finally, all of the major injuries have been sorted well enough for his own system to catch up and heal him completely. It'll probably take a few days, but once you get him rehydrated and eating proper food, who knows? It might take no more than a few hours.

You apply a thin layer of antiseptic gel over the sutures and cover them with clean gauze and bandages.

"We'll change these a few times in the next 24 hours," you tell Barnes, snipping several pieces of white medical tape to keep the bandages in place.

"Okay," he breathes, and you can tell he's spent, utterly exhausted.

"There are a few sedatives here… They can't stop the nightmares, but they can help put you under deeply enough that you're not actively aware of them." You place your hand on his uninjured shoulder as he flinches in response.

"No, no more drugs."

You nod, "Okay. We'll get you upstairs into a proper bed so you can rest. We won't leave you alone."

He looks at you, then at Steve who nods in agreement. The promise seems to calm him slightly.

"And if you get lost in the memories, Ana is only a phone call away. I can pull you out again."

He relaxes completely this time and slowly sits up, swinging his long legs over the edge of the island. Steve scrambles to keep the I.V. from getting tangled.

You grab several bottles of water out of the enormous fridge and a Gatorade as well. "Drink one of these," you hand him the water. "Then half of this," you hold up the lime-flavored drink. "Then you can go lie down."

Steve tosses you a small pill bottle.

"Antibiotics," he says.

You portion out a proper dose and fold the pills into Barnes' metal hand. You can tell that he's studying you carefully, and you imagine he's expecting some kind of reaction to it. Disgust or fear. Something. You don't react at all, wondering what he would say if you informed him that you know a damn-near indestructible Russian kid who can turn his entire body into organic steel.

"Swallow these," you say instead, canting your head to the side as you watch him do as instructed.

He chugs the entire bottle of water like a man dying of thirst, so you give him another, which he gets halfway through before stopping.

"Didn't realize how much I wanted that," he remarks, screwing the cap back on. "Thanks."

"Not a problem. C'mon, let's get you upstairs."

A few minutes and one ridiculously long flight of stairs later, you and Steve have helped him into the largest of the bedrooms. There's a brief argument about helping him change into the sweatpants and t-shirt Steve procured from the dresser before you decide to let him go ahead and struggle on his own. Might teach him to stop being so stubborn about accepting help.

You and Rogers wait outside the closed (slammed shut) door, listening with increasing concern over the swearing and crashing coming from the other side.

"Should we..?" Steve asks.

"Let him do this," you answer. "I don't think he's ready for his best friend or a _dame_ he just met to see him naked."

There's also a reasonably good chance that he's ashamed of what his body looks like now, with all the grafted metal and mechanics, the scars, but you don't mention that to Rogers.

The door clicks open and Barnes leans out. He's still bare-chested, but he's gotten the sweatpants on. "Couldn't get the shirt over my arm," he explains, shrugging.

"Good enough," you assure him. "We can pile blankets on if you're cold."

"I don't get cold," he says, turning back into the room, staring at the massive California King-sized bed like it might rear up and devour him at any moment.

"This isn't going to work," he states, matter-of-factly.

"Why not?" You ask, pressing both arms down on the deliciously soft bed.

"Not hard enough," Steve explains, throwing in a shrug of his shoulders at your look of incredulity. "People like us… soldiers… We're used to sleeping on the ground. Dirt, concrete. It sounds crazy, but this much comfort is _uncomfortable_."

"It's just unfamiliar," you challenge. "I've slept on my fair share of floors, but you can be damned sure I enjoy the shit out of my Tempurpedic every night."

He shrugs again. "It's different."

You roll your eyes and throw up your hands. "Fine, suit yourself. Sleep on the floor."

Barnes nods and slowly lowers himself to the floor at the foot of the bed, careful to keep the I.V. line stretched out. He shoves Steve off at an attempt to help.

"Not even a pillow?" you ask, staring at the veritable mountain of them piled at the head of the bed.

"Not necessary," Barnes grunts, slinging his good arm over his eyes to block out the light.

"You're both insane," you state, watching as Steve settles into a leather club chair in the corner of the room.

"Just damaged," Barnes says, and Rogers can't hide the wince in his face at the words.

"It's gonna be—"

"Don't say it again, Steve. Just don't. You can't know that it will be, so don't say it."

A long silence stretches in the room, almost palpable.

"I'm gonna go take a walk," Steve says, standing up from the chair. "You okay to stay with him until I get back?" He's angry, and you've rarely heard this tone in his voice so you just nod.

"Good. I won't be long." With that, he leaves the room, shutting the door a little too hard behind him.

"Jackass," Barnes mutters.

"Yes," you snap. "You are."

"Me?" he asks, lifting his arm from his eyes.

"All he's done is try to help you. What did you expect him to say, 'Yeah, Buck, you really are fucked up. Ha ha.'?"

He scowls and replaces the arm.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, what, because you had it hard, because they hurt you, no one else is allowed to talk about how bad their pain is? He can't possibly be suffering as much as you are so he should just shut his mouth and bear it?"

"Yes."

"That is so unbelievably selfish," you say, turning away to draw the curtains across the window. The last light of the sun is fading, but you can tell it's bothering him. The room is fairly dark now and you wait as your eyes quickly adjust, their internal structure shifting slightly, and then plop yourself down on the edge of the bed.

"Get some sleep, Sergeant."

He grunts again and you lie back, annoyed and tired. You should call Ana before drifting off, but get the sense that she's checked in on you a few times already.

You're only just starting to fall asleep when Barnes arches off the floor, choking on a scream of pain and terror.

You jump off the mattress and reach for his convulsing form, careful of his bandages, and holding on to the back of his head, pressing down with your other arm against his as he tries to tear at himself.

"Barnes! _Barnes!_"

His eyes flutter open and for a second, he doesn't know you.

Then his breath comes out in a rush as he relaxes, sweaty and dazed.

"Nightmare…" he explains, trying to sit up and only managing to lay his head between your neck and shoulder, holding on to you with his good hand. "Goddamn. How long was I out?"

"Minutes," you inform him quietly. "Maybe five or ten."

He says nothing in response, just breathes—unsteadily-against your shoulder.

"Is this why you started drinking?"

"Partially," he says. "If I was drunk enough, I could sleep without remembering anything. And I could be awake without remembering anything either."

You shake your head. "That's no way to live."

"Wasn't trying to live," he hesitates, pressing further into your shoulder. "Was trying to_ die_."

"I know," you bring your other arm around to rub gentle circles between his shoulder blades. "You said as much the first time we met, remember?"

He nods. "I just want it to stop. All of it. I don't want to be here anymore."

You pull back from him and lift his head up, ducking yours down to make eye contact. Standing up, he's tall enough that you feel as though you're craning your neck to look him in the face, but crumpled on the ground like this…

"Well, life isn't always about what _you_ want, or what's easiest for _you_," you tell him. "And Steve is right. This _will_ get better. We can't fix all of it, or make it go away, but we can repair some of the damage. Enough that you can have a life, James. A _real_ life, whatever kind you want."

You can tell he doesn't believe you, but he nods anyway, pulling back. He's suddenly uncomfortable with the physical contact he was clinging so closely to moments before.

"You shouldn't be here. This isn't going to end well for you or for Steve."

"Why are you so determined to do this alone?" you ask, settling back on your heels.

He shrugs, leaning his head back against the end of the bed and staring up at the ceiling.

"I guess I don't think I deserve the help," he says. "Do you have any idea how many people I've killed? How many lives I've ruined?"

"That was The Winter Soldier, not you," you say sternly.

"No, don't do that. Don't try to separate us. They might have screwed with my memories, but it was still me. Those were my skills, my shots. Even when I thought I recognized Steve, I still wanted to follow through with my mission. I beat him half-to-death on that helicarrier."

You sigh, turning his words over in your head. "They turned you into a thing, Barnes. They tried—very hard—to take away your ability to reason, to question, and in many ways they succeeded."

"But—"

"Let me finish," you reach out for his metal hand, holding it gently. "_But_. But, despite all of the brain-washing, and torture, and _threats_ of torture… Despite years in cryogenic suspension, you—the _real _you-still kept coming through. Otherwise, they wouldn't have had to wipe your mind over and over."

You can tell that hadn't occurred to him, and the look of genuine surprise on his face is nothing short of tragic.

"You fought back. And you won: You're here, and you know who you are."

He nods slowly. "I owe you an apology."

"None needed," you tell him. "I've got deep reservoirs of patience yet to be tapped."

He snorts a little. "That's a valuable skill."

"More like a byproduct of raising a teenage girl," you retort. "You may want to apologize to Rogers, though. He'll appreciate it, and you'll probably feel better."

"When he gets back, I will," he says. "I really hate to use them, but can I get some of those sedatives?"

You nod, "They're downstairs in the kitchen, but I can go grab something and bring it back up… as long as you promise to still be here when I get back."

"I'm not running," he says, settling back against the bed a bit more. "Too tired."

"Alright. In the meantime, drink some water since you're awake," you tell him, standing smoothly from your crouch. "I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

A smile flickers across his face at the phrase and he nods.

You try not to be overt in the quick pace you set to retrieve the requested meds. No point in making it clear how little you _really_ trust him not to bolt at the first opportunity. With barely a thought, you lengthen and widen your ears—it's an atrocious look, but you can hear much more and will be better able to catch any sound of movement upstairs—and remind yourself to undo the change before re-entering the bedroom.

"There are pills," you explain, producing another empty syringe once you're back at Barnes' side, ears returned to their normal shape and size. "But an intravenous sedative will work faster. You'll be asleep before you know it."

You draw the proper dosage from the small glass vile containing a clear liquid. Barnes offers you his good arm and looks away as you swab a small patch of skin with disinfectant.

"Don't like needles?" you ask.

"Never did, but after what happened, I _really_ dislike them."

"Sorry," you offer, finding a healthy, plump vein and sliding the needle in. "Little pinch, and then a bit of a burn from the medication."

He sucks in his breath a little and the muscle in his forearm jumps.

"Christ…" he swears as you withdraw the needle.

"Yeah, I know it's uncomfortable, but…" You look up and watch as his pupils constrict to pinpoints. "It works like a charm."

He takes a deep breath and seems to melt against the bed.

"You ain't kidding," he slurs, and you help him back into a prone position. Once he's settled, you start to stand, intending to return to the bed or the chair to keep an eye on him, but he grabs your hand and holds you in place.

"Stay. Just until I'm out," he requests.

"Okay," you cover his hand with your own, patting it reassuringly. "I'll stay as long as you want."

He nods and you wait for his breathing to even out, for the stress lines in his face to fade. His grip on your hand remains though, and you don't have the heart to disentangle it. You fold your knees against the floor and get as comfortable as possible.

Closing your eyes, you let your mind drift; a sort of pseudo-meditative state that you've been using since you were a kid as an escape, a way to check out without actually leaving home.

An hour-or-so later, Steve returns, entering the room as quietly as possible.

"Hey," he whispers, after noticing that you're awake, though groggy.

"Mmph. Walk help?"

He nods, "Yeah. Had to think about some stuff."

"He's sorry for what he said," you tell him. "We had a bit of a chat not long after you excused yourself."

"I know he is," Steve admits. "I know he doesn't mean a lot of it, maybe any of it. It's just hard. I remember how he was. We grew up together and he protected me. Always protected me."

"And you feel like you failed to protect him?" you ask, one brow arching in the darkness of the room.

"Yeah, maybe. I guess." He perches on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. "I just wish I could fix it."

You shake your head, "Not that simple, I'm afraid. Though I understand the desire to do so. It'd be easier on everyone."

He nods and jams his hands into the pouch at the front of his hoodie and slumps forward.

"I guess I had some unrealistic expectations when I set out to find him with Sam," he says, brooding.

"You're human. Who amongst us doesn't do that from time-to-time, especially when we really care about the outcome of our efforts?"

He laughs a little. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"I have an infuriatingly clever little sister. I _have_ to have an answer for everything, even if what I'm saying is absolute crap," you laugh in return.

Barnes mumbles in his sleep and both you and Rogers watch him intensely for several minutes, waiting to see if the disturbance becomes more severe.

"What you saw, when you went in there," Rogers says, motioning to his friend. "Was it-?"

"You don't need that on your conscience," you warn. "And I won't be the one to add it to your concerns. It was bad, but he survived. Leave it at that."

"You should get some sleep," he supplies after a long pause. "I can keep watch."

You nod and stretch out on the floor across from Barnes.

"What are you-?"

You point to where Barnes' hand has captured yours.

"I told him I wouldn't leave, so I'll sleep down here. On the floor. Like a bloody savage."

He laughs again. "Sorry. Pillow?"

"_Please_," you respond, catching the one he tosses down to you with your free hand and stuffing it under your head.

"Anything else?"

You feel your metabolism crank up a bit and the barely noticeable chill you'd been feeling fades. You'll be hungry when you wake up, but at least you'll sleep soundly.

"I'm good, thanks."

"Pleasant dreams," he says, and it's just so _like_ him to say something that corny with such sincerity. You're still snickering when you finally drop off into a deep, restful sleep.

-To Be Continued-


	2. Chapter 2

_The End of the Line_

The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Reader

Part I; Chapter 2

* * *

><p>"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."<p>

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

><p>The sun isn't quite up when you come around, blinking away the sleepiness that gums up your eyes, and suppressing a yawn that threatens to be tongue-curling in its depth.<p>

Barnes turned over sometime in the night, freeing your hand from his, and is once again curled up in the same fetal position he had assumed in the brownstone.

_That was less than 24 hours ago_, you remind yourself, marveling at how quickly a situation could progress from a simple conversation to a full-out medical intervention for one of the world's deadliest assassins.

The sedative you administered has probably worn off by now, but his sleep seems untroubled. You prop yourself up on an elbow and reach over with your free hand to press against his forehead.

_No fever,_ you determine, relieved. His own ability to heal probably did more than your sutures and antibiotics, but you give yourself a mental pat on the back regardless.

Carefully, you get yourself on your feet, checking the chair in the corner for Rogers. Finding it empty, you recall reading an article in the _New York Times_ about his rather notorious "jogs" (see also: "marathon sprints") around the National Mall.

_Probably woke up early to get a run in_, you guess, stretching.

Lost in the pleasure of the practiced movements and the release of tension as each muscle and tendon is pulled _just_ shy of actual discomfort, you begin to pick up the faint (but increasing) odor of smoke.

Eyes snapping open, you reach for the door, ready to shout for Barnes to get up, to get out of the house before it burns down around you both, but are interrupted by the distinct sound of Rogers swearing and something large, heavy, and metallic hitting the floor downstairs.

"You've got to be kidding me…" Glancing back to make sure your charge is still sleeping, you quietly open the bedroom door and pad down the obscenely long staircase, the smell of smoke and burnt bacon increasing as you descend.

You slip into the kitchen, incredulous at the sight of Captain America trying desperately to put out the no-shit _fire_ he's started on the stove while keeping the increasing amount of smoke from setting off the fire alarm.

"What… are you… _doing_?" You manage, staring at the disaster that was once a pristine, top-of-the-line kitchen.

He spins around, startled by your sudden appearance during what you're sure he hoped would remain an event without witnesses.

"I, uh…" He looks to the stove. "I was trying to make breakfast."

"This is not _trying_," you scold, crossing the distance to the stove and grabbing a large, cast-iron skillet from the rack hanging over head, using it to cover and smother the inferno that had once been a pan full of thick-cut bacon. "This is almost burning the house down."

You turn the stove off, and using a thick oven mitt, transfer both pans to the sink.

"Don't!" you smack his hand away as he reaches to turn the water on. "Wait for them to cool down, or you'll just get boiling water and steam shot back at you. Go open a window. Maybe _all_ the windows."

You flip the stove's hood fan on and continue fanning the area nearest the fire alarm with a towel while Steve—shame-faced and still apologizing—gets every window on the bottom floor of the house open.

Taking stock of the damage, you can see he wasn't content to restrict his culinary offenses to burnt bacon and ruined saute pans, but has actually coated most of the counters in what appears to be gummy wads of dough. A large metal bowl is still rolling on the floor, fruit spilled everywhere, and there are more dishes in the sink than anyone could have possibly needed to prepare breakfast for three people.

You slowly raise an eyebrow, lips pursed.

"Go ahead, let me have it," he sighs, dejected.

"There are no words," you retort, shaking your head at him and trying not to laugh at his blundering.

"Just figured you'd both be hungry," he says, chuckling at himself. "I don't have much experience in the kitchen."

"Clearly." You shake your head and without another word, you both begin to clean up the mess.

"What happened in here?" Barnes' voice calls from the doorway.

You hand Rogers the ruined (but clean) pan in which he had thoroughly murdered a rasher of bacon and tell him to put it in the recycling.

"Steve tried to burn the house down," you snicker.

"Hey!" Rogers calls back, tossing the scorched pan into a bin just outside the back door.

You look over your shoulder to tease him again, but catch the irritable expression on Barnes' face and stop yourself.

"You okay?" you ask, drying off the skillet you used to put out the fire.

"Woke up alone," he says, accusatory, not making eye contact with either of you.

"It was only for a few minutes," you explain. "I had just gotten up and smelled smoke."

"And that turned into you and Steve playing house," he snaps.

You look at Steve and shrug, clueless as how to proceed or answer. You're not sure what's being implied or what, precisely, Barnes is so upset about.

"I'm… sorry you had to wake up alone," you start, but he leaves the doorway and goes back upstairs before you or Steve can get to the bottom of what's actually bothering him.

"Could he be that upset that neither of us was upstairs when he came 'round?" you ask.

"I don't know, but I'm gonna find out," Rogers answers, marching out of the kitchen like a man on a mission, following Barnes' trail up the stairs.

"Let you two sort it out then," you say to yourself and the suddenly empty room. Not sure what else to do with yourself, you check the fridge and pantry, resolved to go ahead and throw something together for breakfast.

Just as you're getting the first batch of crepes out of the pan and onto a plate to cool, you hear raised voices from upstairs, followed by the sound of something—or _someone_—being thrown against a wall.

"Men," you snort, taking the pan off the heat and turning the stove off. You trot upstairs, ready to deliver a semi-sarcastic lecture about "using your words" when you narrowly dodge Steve as he's flung out of the bedroom and down the staircase, shattering one of the banisters and landing in the foyer in a heap.

"Son of a—" you start, and then Barnes is charging out of the room, face twisted with rage, and he's headed straight for you.

When he hits (unavoidable), you can feel the momentary shock as he realizes he hasn't made contact with what he expected-that being your rather slight, compact frame-and has instead been lifted off his feet in a _literal_ bear-hug.

By a _literal_ bear.

A 7 ½ foot tall Grizzly, to be precise, all brown fur and thick muscle, slathering jaws and angry, piggy eyes. You grunt, low and gutteral, and then drop him back down on the staircase.

To his credit, he only hesitates for a second before bringing his metal arm around in a flash, connecting hard with your muzzle. Your head snaps to the side, ringing with pain, and you have to take a moment to shake off the shock of the connection before looking back down at him.

You try to remember that he's still hurt and _lost_, but the bear is furious that this strange, foul-smelling primate has attacked it and for a moment, you lose control.

With an almost casual sweep of your dinner plate-sized paw, you send him flying off the stairs, crashing into and through the livingroom wall. The bear roars, triumphant, and drops to all fours, dashing down the staircase with surprising agility and speed.

It wants to make sure the creature that attacked it is good and dead, and then maybe later it will take a nap, or eat. Or both. Maybe it will even eat the thing that hurt it, because why let good meat go to waste? Things aren't terribly complicated for the bear. Eliminating threats takes top priority and it isn't inclined to dilly-dally.

But then Rogers is shouting your name, and you remember yourself. The bear is shoved back down beneath your conscious mind and you're back, panting and whining over Barnes' crumpled form. A few moments more, and you would have buried your teeth in his neck.

In a barely perceptible flash of expended energy, you banish the form of the bear and are back in your own skin, naked as they day you were born.

"Oh Christ," Steve chokes, and you're not sure it's over Barnes or your nudity. A quick mental command, and all your most private bits are hidden behind a layer of leathery skin, molded like a bodysuit to preserve your dignity.

"What the hell was that?!" Steve demands, crouching at Barnes' side and moving a few pieces of broken drywall off of him.

"I could ask you the same thing," you shoot back, then: "Apex predators are always tricky to control in a fight. Strong instincts," you explain with a shrug. "What happened upstairs to make him snap?"

"I don't know," Rogers admits. "He wasn't making a lot of sense. I was about to call you up there to help calm him down and he just… lost it."

Luckily (or as lucky as he can get at this point), you'd backhanded Barnes, sparing him a solid raking with the bear's claws.

"I think he'll be okay," you mutter, checking his head for blood or swelling, and his neck for any signs of a compromised spine. "Possibly concussed. Probably—no, definitely-broke a few ribs."

"Remind me not to piss you off," Rogers says, helping you move Barnes to one of the long couches in the living room.

"It's not usually that bad," you tell him, peeling one of Barnes' eyes open and checking to see if the pupil is blown. "He caught me off-guard and I reacted poorly. This is my fault."

"How do you figure?" Steve asks, watching as you run a quick diagnostic of his friend's condition. "He attacked you."

"I told him I would stay, and I left him to find out what you were doing downstairs. I should have woken him up and told him what was going on, and I didn't. It set him off."

"I don't think that's the only thing that set him off," Steve observes.

"Can you grab something out of the freezer for his head?" you ask. "Frozen peas, something like that. And the heavy-duty bandages. I have to wrap his chest or those broken ribs will slice him apart from the inside."

Steve nods and moves into the kitchen to do as you ask, leaving you to continue checking Barnes for any other obvious injuries.

Rogers returns a few moments later, handing you the bandages and gently pressing a bag of frozen mixed vegetables wrapped in a kitchen towel against the back of Barnes' head where he connected with the wall. Compressing your arm against the couch cushion, you slip a length of the bandage under his back and back out the other side and start slowly, carefully, wrapping him up.

Once you're satisfied that his ribs are stable enough to keep them from doing any more damage, you check your sutures to see if any of the wounds have re-opened, though the lack of blood is a good indication that they—somehow—did not.

"I think we're in over our heads, Captain," you say, checking Barnes' pupils again for any change. "He needs serious help. Psychological _and_ medical. I don't think we can sequester him in this house and hope he'll magically pull himself together."

"I know," he admits. "I called in a few favors last night when I went on that walk. I was going to try to give him a day or two before bringing in the cavalry, but…"

"I'm sorry," you say, wincing. "We tried."

He nods, looking away momentarily. "I guess I was hoping for a miracle."

"The fact that he's alive is miraculous enough. That he's up and walking around, stringing together coherent sentences is… Well, it shouldn't be possible based on what I've seen."

"And what is it, exactly, that you think you've seen?"

You jump a little at the sound of Barnes' voice, at the realization that his eyes are suddenly open, and clear, and focused rather intently on _you_.

"Hey, easy now," Steve starts, but Barnes is already shoving himself up into a sitting position.

"Shut up," he snarls. "Answer my question, what do you think you've seen that makes you so _knowledgeable_ about me?"

"That's not what I meant," you tell him, as calmly as possible. "You need to lie down."

"Go to hell," he snaps, then suddenly slumps backward, holding his head in his hands and breathing hard.

"I'm sorry, _shit_. I'm really sorry," he repeats. "I don't know why I keep doing that."

"Sudden, intense mood swings are pretty normal for someone suffering from a traumatic brain injury," you tell him, gently pulling his hands away from his face. "They'll lessen with time."

"I threw you off the stairs," he says, glancing at Steve.

"Water under the bridge," Rogers answers, insufferably good-natured.

"And I hit you ," he continues, eyes narrowing as he grasps at events only half-remembered, avoiding your gaze. "I hit a woman."

"The sexism of the distinction aside, don't fret over it," you insist. "Besides, I hit you back."

"Yeah, I know," he says, reaching back to rub the sore spot on the back of his head. "Like a freight train."

"More like a fully-grown ursine, but I'll accept 'freight train' as an adequate description."

"Buck, I was going to broach this after breakfast—" Steve starts.

"The one you almost burned the house down preparing?" you snicker, hoping to take some of the tension out of the room.

"_Yes_, that same one," he continues tersely. "But… I guess now is as good a time as any. I think we need to bring you back to Stark—_Avengers_—Tower and get you some more help."

"The licensed kind," you add. "I've got a few more years left of university before I can actually be considered a proper physician. Also, I slept through a lot of my psychology courses so, not going to be much help in that arena."

Barnes tenses and closes his eyes, considering the suggestion.

"Do I really have a choice?" he asks.

"Well, it's either come with us, or go back on the run. I won't promise not to chase you, but I'm not going to force you to stick to the plan, either. Your call."

"For what it's worth, I think it's a good plan," you add. "Hydra is still out there, Barnes. You certainly cut an imposing figure, but it's only a matter of time before they catch up."

"I look forward to the reunion," he grinds out.

"You shouldn't," you say, scowling. "You don't belong to them anymore, which makes you a threat. I strongly suspect they'll throw everything they can at you in an attempt to both cover their tracks and remove you from the board. You're too valuable and dangerous a piece to leave unchecked."

"Then I'll go down fighting," he throws back at you. "What else do I have to live for, except to kill as many of them as I can before snuffing it?"

"Hey, don't talk like that," Steve says, obviously hurt by the declaration. "There's plenty to live for besides fighting and killing."

Barnes looks away, unconvinced.

"I'm not like you, Steve," he finally says. "Whatever might have been soft or _kind… _they beat that out of me. I'm not going to wake up one day and be the guy you remember from way-back-when."

"That's not—"

"Bucky Barnes is dead," he finishes. "Do you understand that? He's _gone_."

"None of this is right," you say quietly, drawing the attention of them both. "It's not fair."

Barnes swears and looks away.

"It's also a steaming pile of horseshit," you continue, and his head turns back to yours, another lecture about lost destinies and keeping quiet about things you clearly don't understand dying on his lips as you soldier on, anger rising as the words spill out.

"After everything you've gone through, _survived_, you're going to let them win? Now?"

His silence compels you to continue, gives you some tiny measure of hope that you might be able to get through that thick skull of his.

"This is what they wanted! They _wanted_ to strip you of whomever James 'Bucky' Barnes was, hollow you out, and replace you with something compliant and _evil. _Someone who would kill on command, whose only purpose was to destroy, to trample everything in his path."

"They did a good job," he bites out.

You jam a finger in his chest, furious. "Don't you dare, don't you _dare_ think that's true, not for a single second. You tried to _kill yourself_ in that fucking pit in Brooklyn, and not because you don't think you have a purpose, or because you're a killer, or any other self-centered bullshit!"

Steve visibly reels from the information and you feel a momentary pang of guilt for revealing it this way. Barnes is staring at you, the dark circles around his eyes dulling their color slightly.

"You regret a lot of things, a lot of choices you might have made that would have spared you, and Rogers, and everyone else you ever knew or loved a lot of grief. But more than any of that, you are_ angry_."

"No shit, I'm angry!" he screams in your face, eyes suddenly bright and blazing.

"Good! You ought to be! But not with me, and certainly not with Steve!"

He's waiting, searching for some crack in your resolve, some sign that you'll crumble and he can crow his victory.

Instead, you shift forward from your position next to the couch and get your hands pressed on either side of his face. His own fly up to grasp your wrists but he doesn't move after that. You relax, curling your fingers in the hair behind his ears. His gaze softens, almost imperceptibly, and you continue, praying to whatever deity will listen that he really _hears_ this.

"You have a purpose beyond all that darkness and misery. What happened to you _then_ doesn't have to limit what happens _now_, or _next_. Can't you see that?"

"No," he whispers back. "I'm sorry, but I just… I can't."

"Then give us a chance to prove you wrong," Steve adds. "That shouldn't be too much to ask."

Barnes is silent for a long time before conceding. "Fine."

Your head drops and and you tug on his hair a bit, relieved.

The rest of the morning passes without incident. You change into a plain t-shirt and drawstring pants found in one of the other bedrooms, and get a bit of breakfast into both men (though you suspect Barnes has spent more time pushing food around his plate than actually eating). Not wanting to pick a fight over it, you retreat to the first floor study and lose yourself in _Pride and Prejudice;_ the exploits of the Bennet girls a welcome distraction from the absolute silence laying heavy over the house like a shroud.

A knock on the door frame draws your attention away from Austen's narrative, and you look up to see Steve filling the passageway.

"God, you're enormous," you remark, making him blush scarlet, eartip to eartip.

"Yeah, it still startles me sometimes, too," he laughs. "I was pretty scrawny most of my life."

You close the book and lay it down on the sidetable next to your chair. "Everything okay?"

"Romanoff is on her way here to help get Bucky back to The Tower. Stark and Banner are standing by in the new medical wing with a team of doctors that Tony swears by."

"Which means he's paid them a monstrous amount of money to ensure their discretion," you observe. "By the way, he _does_ know that tower is hideous, doesn't he?"

"I wouldn't say that to his face. Or to Ms. Potts."

You shrug, picking up on the not-too-subtle hint that your part in this mission is drawing to a close. You're not an Avenger, after all, and while you were prepared to take some time off from work, you'll be glad to get back to Westchester earlier than planned.

"I wanted to thank you for all your help," Steve says. "And when we head back out on the hunt, I'll be sure to send you an invitation."

"Well, I've got a very busy schedule, but I might be convinced to squeeze in some time for a bit of vigilante justice. Somewhere between Yoga and Evolutionary Biology."

"That a class you're taking, or one you're teaching?"

"Teaching," you clarify. "I'm taking a year off from university. I wanted to spend more time with Ana."

He nods. "Must be nice, having a kid sister."

"On occasion. She's at that precious age where she's fully confident she knows everything about everything and I'm just a great, big, fascist idiot whose only goal in life is to ruin her fun."

"Sounds wonderful," he says, laughing.

"We have our moments," you return.

There's a knock at the front door and Steve glances back over his shoulder. "That'll be Nat," he says, pushing away from the door frame.

"We've met," you tell him, noticing the shift in his mood from playful to anticipatory. Maybe _nervous_, even. You decide to probe a bit. "She's incredible in a fight," you pause. "And pretty, too."

"Yeah I know," he says, then realizes the slip, "Wait, what?"

You just smile knowingly and put your book back on the shelf you pulled it from.

"Hey, hang on second, I think you might be implying something that—"

"Rogers?" A female voice calls out.

"Dammit, she picked the lock."

"Of course she did," you say, patting him on the chest as you push by. Peering down the hallway you wave to the redheaded woman standing in the foyer. She's studying the damage to the staircase and the wall before switching her gaze to you.

"You guys throw a party or something?" she asks, smirking.

"Or something." You stretch out your hand and introduce yourself properly. "We've met, sort of, but there wasn't time for pleasantries."

"I remember," she says. "That incident in Yonkers."

You nod and look back down the hall where Steve is still hovering, not sure of how to join the conversation without being an awkward goofball.

"Go easy on him," you say, looking back at Natasha. "He's a good guy, but kind of an idiot about women."

She sighs, tilting her head to the side. "I know. It's part of his charm."

You wave goodbye to Steve, before looking up the stairs at Barnes' bedroom door.

"I'm just going to say goodbye and good luck," you tell Natasha. "Then I'll hit the road. Steve has my number in case you need me for whatever reason. Don't hesitate to call."

"We won't," she promises before stepping lightly down the hall to discuss the plan of the day with Rogers.

You take the stairs two-at-a-time, and knock softly on the closed door.

"Barnes? It's me," you call out. "I just wanted to say goodbye before I head back upstate."

The door swings open a crack, but it's so dark on the other side you can't tell if he's standing there or has retreated back into the shadows.

You step inside, closing the door behind you and resist your body's immediate urge to increase the light-reflecting cells in your eyes. If he's sitting in the dark, he's doing it for a reason, and you're not going to violate what little trust he has in you by spying.

"I thought you'd come to Stark's place," he says, and you're able to pick him out, sitting on the edge of the bed, as your eyes adjust naturally to the dim light.

"I'll stop in from time-to-time," you promise. "Or if I'm needed. But I think right now you should focus on getting well, and I'm not part of the team that's going to get you there."

He looks away, flexing his metal hand in what you can only assume is an unconscious habit.

"I don't know those people," he says.

"You don't really know me either," you remind him. "Or rather, you know me as much as anyone can with little more than 24 hours of interaction. Besides, Steve will be there. You know him."

"I just figured you'd stick around after that speech downstairs."

You make the bold decision to sit down next to him on the bed, sighing a bit as you consider what to say next.

"It's not that I don't want to," you admit. "… and I don't want you to feel like I'm bolting to be rid of the headache—and you_ are_ a headache, Barnes, no bones about it." You nudge his shoulder with your own, hoping he understands you're only teasing.

"But?" he asks.

"But… I have responsibilities at home. I can get away with a week or two out of pocket, but I'd rather not use up whatever goodwill I've managed to squirrel away unless I really have to. I'll be back when you're feeling better, when you and Steve, Sam… Natasha, and whomever else, declare open season on what's left of Hydra."

"Promise?" and he almost sounds childlike in the way he asks, so you wrap an arm around his metal shoulder and squeeze.

"Promise. I'll be the first one on the bus. Or jet. Or whatever you people use to get around."

You turn your head to get a good look at him, and you can't mistake the anxiety evident on his face for anything other than what it is.

"Hey, chin up," you say, nudging him again with your shoulder. "It's going to be okay. These are good people, the kind you'd want to have your back in a fight."

He nods and you slowly extricate yourself from the bed, careful not to make any sudden movements that might set him off.

"Goodbye, Bucky Barnes," you say, reaching for the door. "Be well."

"I'll try," he answers.

-End of Part I. To Be Continued in Part II.-


	3. Chapter 3

_The End of the Line_

The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Mutant!Reader

Part II; Chapter 1

* * *

><p>"Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones."<p>

-Thich Nhat Hanh

* * *

><p>Three weeks have passed since your adventure in New York City with Rogers and Barnes. Since then, life has returned to a state of equilibrium; the most noteworthy event being the precious hours you'd lost surrounded by teenage girls screaming for a man-child in baggy pants as he flounced about the stage, promising to never break their hearts. Ana and her friend had loved every second of it, and considering how much help she'd been on your impromptu mission, you forced yourself to grin (sort of) and bear it (never, <em>ever<em> again).

You'd also received a few text messages from Steve—which he continues to send as if they are proper letters—detailing Barnes' progress and setbacks.

Tonight, he reveals that the Sergeant is being uncooperative with the psychologist that Stark brought it.

"He terrifies her," he texts. "She says he just sits there and refuses to say anything. Stares at her like he wants to kill her."

"It's going to take time," you send back. "He has serious trust issues. You know that."

"Well, whenever you want to visit, let me know. He listens to you."

You're not sure about that. Barnes was a man drowning when you found him, and you're positive he would have clung to anyone or anything that gave him the slightest hope of keeping his head above water. There's no telling how he'll react now, having spent nearly a month back amongst the living, surrounded by bonafide heroes in their not-so-secret clubhouse.

"I have some vacation time coming up at the end of September," you write to Steve. "I'll come down for a weekend and catch up with everyone."

"Okay," he sends back. "We have a few leads on that thing we talked about. Nick thinks we'll be good to go in a few months. You still in?"

"Of course," you reply. "Just say the word."

The conversation eventually peters out and you lie back, exhausted, on your _very_ comfortable bed.

"Winter Soldier stuff?" Ana asks, poking her head through the doorway that connects your suite to her room.

"Go to sleep," you grumble, tossing a pillow at her.

"C'mon, you can tell me!" she says, slipping into your room and throwing herself on the bed to lay beside you. "It's exciting. Hero stuff."

"My involvment in this has been largely limited to creeping about a half-demolished house with a mentally unstable ex-Hydra assassin hiding somewhere inside," you retort.

"Yeah, like I said; exciting."

"We ought to have your head examined," you laugh. "Barnes is still having trouble adjusting. He's better than when we found him, but…"

"I feel bad for him," Ana says, chewing on her nails. "I didn't _look_," she quickly adds. "Not on purpose. But I couldn't avoid picking things up as I was moving you around."

You sigh and roll over onto your stomach.

"The people who did that to him were vile," you explain. "And some of them are still causing trouble."

"Is the team going to get involved?" she asks, referring to the one comprised almost entirely of her teachers.

"I've discussed it with the Professor and Mr. Summers," you tell her. "They don't think things have reached a level where we need to make a stand."

"And you disagree?"

"Very much so," you say. "I don't think a crisis should have to pass a mutant litmus test in order for us to get our asses in gear. Just because Hydra isn't targeting 'us' in particular doesn't mean we should let them do what they want to _other_ people."

"Because we can stop them," she states, matter-of-factly.

"We should try," you correct. "If we don't use our strength-our gifts-to protect those who cannot protect themselves, mutant or otherwise, then what's the point of having powers at all? What makes us any different from the Brotherhood?"

"Well, _I_ agree with you," she says, smiling and removing herself from the bed. "When are you gonna go see him again?"

"September, I think. Just for a weekend."

"Can I come?"

"Absolutely not," you say, adding an edge to your voice. "Not up for discussion."

She pouts and slinks back into her room, shutting the adjoining door while grousing about what an "ageist" you are, whatever that means.

The days continue to progress as they always do, though you can't help feeling like you're going through the motions; reciting the notes in your lesson plans during your lectures intead of engaging with your students, half-heartedly running through training sessions down in the bowels of the school, bothered by _something_ that you can't quite put your finger on.

"You seem distracted," Summers comments one night after spending a few hours beating the hell out of each other in the Danger Room.

"It's this Hydra shit," you grumble, feeling the first pangs of hunger as your body begins to react to all of the energy spent moving from one form to another.

"We talked about this," he says, running a towel through his hair. "It's not our fight."

"Not yet," you snap. "And what's with this 'our' nonsense, lately? I thought the Professor's goal was to unite everyone, as a _species_."

"It's not that simple," he says, tossing the towel into a corner. "Hydra is tangled up with S.H.I.E.L.D., and S.H.I.E.L.D. has funneled their influence into a lot of different projects and organizations. The kind that have tried to wipe _us_ off the face of the planet."

"So we're hiding from a bunch of dispossessed G-Men," you say, nodding. "To keep our hands clean."

"You weren't here when they raided the school," he says, glaring at you from behind ruby lenses.

"Neither were you," you throw back at him.

"Yeah, because those G-Men drugged me," he says. "With a cocktail they drained out of _another_ mutant that was kept strapped to a wheelchair for 20 years."

"So when _you_ have your brain hijacked, we should jump into the fray, no questions asked. But when it's someone else—"

"Barnes is not an X-Man," he says. "What happened to him is horrible, but he's not our responsibility. Let the Avengers handle it."

"I—" You're interrupted by the sound of your cellphone as it nearly buzzes itself off of the stack of practice mats you'd left it on. You retrieve it quickly and see that it's Romanoff's number and accept the call.

"Hello?"

"Hey," she answers, and you can hear the muffled sounds of something chaotic going on the background.

"What's going on?"

"Well," she starts, "Stark removed Barnes' arm, and—"

"What? Why?!"

"We ran some tests and found a few deactivated tracking devices built into it. Tony was afraid there might be more inside, along with other fail-safes in the event The Winter Soldier were captured or incapacitated."

"I take it the procedure did not go well?" You wave Scott off as he asks if everything is okay.

"The removal went fine, and Tony did find some things worth stripping or fixing. Most notably, several automated and remote-controlled injection delivery systems that were malfunctioning. They were pumping Barnes full of adrenaline, narcotics, and morphine at random."

"That explains some things," you mutter.

"Banner ran a diagnostic on the narcotics. He says the compound appears to have been engineered to open the recipient's mind to suggestion," she continues. "It was heavy-duty stuff."

"Just another control," you add. "If he started to resist in the field, in the middle of a mission, it would makes sense for them to have some way to rein him back in. Building the system into his arm was clever—cruel, but clever."

"Yeah, they're a really fun crowd," she deadpans. "Anyway, Tony took the arm apart, made some improvements, and we got Barnes into the medical ward today to reattach it. That's when everything went to hell."

"Where is he now?"

"We locked him in the operating room. He tore everything apart in there, but we got up into the observation deck and sealed the door before he could hurt anyone," she explains. "He's not responding to any of us, not even Steve, and we've been trying to get through for hours now."

"Can you see what he's doing?"

"No, room is dark after he smashed all of the lights and ripped a bunch of the electrical panels apart," she pauses. "This room has no secondary exit, either. We have to leave _through_ the operating theatre or not at all."

"That's a serious design flaw," you observe.

"I know. I plan to discuss it _thoroughly_ with Tony once we're out."

"So what you want me to do, exactly? I'm not sure I'll be much use out here in the sticks," you query, ignoring Scott's snort of irritation. You don't know if it's because you're willfully involving yourself in something he clearly wants nothing to do with, or because of the jab at the campus' remote location.

"He wants you to come in, see if you can talk Barnes down," she finishes. "We understand if you can't…"

"No, don't be ridiculous. Of course I can," you lower the phone and find Summers' attention is still on the conversation.

"Personal objections aside, can you find someone to cover my lecture tomorrow?"

He shrugs noncomittaly before finally withering under your supremely irritated scowl.

"Yeah, fine. I'll cover it, or Jean will. You gonna be gone over the weekend too?"

"Probably. I'll call once I'm there and have a better idea of the situation," you answer, before remembering to thank him for the help.

"Natasha?"

"Still here."

"I'll be there in 45 minutes, can you lot hold things together 'til then?"

She sighs into the phone, "Yeah, we'll manage."

You hang up, thank Scott a second time, and then dash to the elevator, mentally mapping all the back roads that should be devoid of police (because time is of the essence and you don't plan on maintaining the speed limit the _whole_ way), at least until you hit the Saw Mill River Parkway. Then it's more-or-less a straight shot downtown.

"I'll tell Ana!" Summers shouts down the hallway as you slip inside the elevator.

You reach your suite a few minutes later, throw some clothes into a backpack, change into riding gear, and then you're on your way down the grand staircase and out into the garage.

You barely manage to shoot off a single text to Ana ("Heading to the city. Don't worry. Call you when I can. In bed by 10!") before launching out of the bay on the Superleggera. You make up some time once you hit 110 MPH on the winding roads that meander through this part of Westchester, the bike gripping every twist and turn with ease and precision.

The parkway isn't too bad this time of night; the traffic largely due to backups from earlier in the evening during rush hour. With a little deft maneuvering, you manage to weave your way through the worst of it, earning some nasty looks from the drivers left bumper-to-bumper in your wake.

Soon enough, you're inside the city limits, rolling down W. 42nd and navigating your way toward the hulking behemoth that is Avengers Tower.

There's a stocky man in a dark suit waiting for you at the front of the building, so you pull up and tug your helmet off.

"33 minutes," he says, rubbing his hands together. "Pretty impressive."

"And you are?" you broach, having never met him before and _somehow_ guessing he isn't one of Fury's people.

"Happy," he says, staring intently at the bike with what looks like utter devotion. "Mr. Stark's chauffer. And sometimes bodyguard. Also Head of Security."

"Iron Man needs a bodyguard?" you ask, dismounting and rolling the bike closer to the building.

"Iron Man, no. Tony Stark…" he makes a weeble-wabble motion with his hand. "It makes Ms. Potts feel better to know I'm watching his back."

You snort and toss him your helmet. "I take it you know where to park this?"

"That's what I'm here for," he says. "I gotta tell ya, there are days when I really question my career decisions, and then there are days like today…"

He takes control of the bike, as reverant of it as a nun standing in the presence of the cross. "You are a beautiful lady," he says, running his hand along the body. "A true work of art."

You blink, "Right. So I'll let myself in."

"Uh-huh," Happy replies, still worshipping the Ducati. Almost absent-mindedly, he tosses you a security badge.

"Wave that in front of the elevator and it'll take you right to the medical wing. Captain Rogers is waiting for you."

You shrug and enter the tower, responding pleasantly as JARVIS greets you, directing you with a bit more detail to the private elevator that only Stark and the other Avengers (Ms. Potts not withstanding) have access to.

"We are very glad to have you here," JARVIS says as you step into the elevator. "If there is anything you need, please don't hesitate to ask."

"I won't," you promise the A.I. butler. "Thanks."

Within seconds, you've reached the proper floor, and as promised, Steve is waiting for you.

"That bad?" you ask, immediately noticing his anxiety.

"I pushed him," he says, waving for you to follow as he heads down a long corridor. "I insisted we inspect the arm. Tony was _so sure _that the procedure would be fine. Should have listened to my instincts."

"Romanoff told me you found some rather nasty things in it once Stark pulled it apart," you counter. "So regardless of Barnes' reaction to the procedure, it's probably for the best. _Definitely_ for the best considering the drugs it was still pumping into his system."

"I guess," he says. "I keep trying to do the right thing, but it seems like I end up making everything worse."

You shake your head, "You're doing the best you can with a bad situation. You said he was doing better…"

"Most days, yeah. It's almost like having the old Bucky back. But then something will set him off; a noise, an old song, sometimes all you have to do is _touch_ him and it's all back to square one," he tells you.

"He's suffering from PTSD, Steve. He needs to give that psychologist a fair shake or we—_you_—won't ever get him back."

"This is the worst I've seen him since Queens," he warns. "I don't know if this will even work. Can your sister do that brain thing again?"

"I'll call her if I have to, but if it's as bad as you say, I'd rather leave her out of it if possible. She can't help but pick up on some of what he's reliving, and that's not exactly the kind of stuff I want my little sister to have stuck in her head."

He nods and finally stops in front of another non-descript door.

"Through here," he says. "I tried going in myself, but he threw a table at me. I can take him in a fight, I think, but I don't want to hurt him and if he doesn't calm down, I'll have to."

"Sometimes we have to hurt the ones we love to save them," you say, shaking your head. "All right, let's do this."

He presses a panel next to the door and it slides open with a pneumatic _hiss_. You step through and Rogers immediately presses the panel again and it shuts.

It's dark-nearly pitch black-in the operating room, with only the occasional shower of sparks or flickering computer monitor to light the way. You alter the structure of your eyes, and the room brightens to a washed-out grey; the amount of destruction you can now see staggers you.

"Good _Lord_," you breathe, sidestepping an enormous stainless steel table that has a suspicously shield-shaped dent in its center. "Barnes?"

There's no answer, not that you were expecting one, so you continue moving through the debris field, just waiting for The Winter Soldier to jump up and cut your throat.

You've made it through nearly the entire length of the room before spotting him. Instead of the battle-ready assassin poised to kill, he's sitting on the floor in the corner, knees pulled up to his chest, his good arm reaching across to cover the space where the other one _used_ to be.

He looks up as you approach, eyes dark behind his hair.

"Stay back," he warns. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you come any closer."

"Barnes," you breathe. "Do you know who I am?"

"Should I?" he asks, without a hint of malice or mockery. He's truly not sure, and you refuse to admit how much that stings, because what does it mean that it does?

"We met a few weeks ago, in Brooklyn. The brownstone near the train station?"

He blinks, trying to place the event, and then shakes his head.

"I don't remember."

"We can work on that," you promise. "Do you know who _you_ are?"

He shakes his head again.

"They were trying to hurt me," he says, tightening the grip on the empty socket where the artificial arm is supposed to be attached. "Are you working with them?"

"Who are they, James? Who do you think is trying to hurt you?"

"The Russians. And Zola. Zola is here too, do you know him?"

You shake your head 'no,' and finally resort to a relaxed crouch a few feet away. "I'm going to tell you some things that might not make sense," you begin, "but they're all true, no matter how far-fetched they may seem."

And while he stares blankly at the floor you recount everything you know about him, about Rogers ambushing you after your meeting with Fury, about Brooklyn, and Queens, and about the series of events within the Tower that lead to this.

"You're not in Russia, James. You're in New York, and you're _safe_. No one is trying to hurt you."

He squints and looks at you, really _looks_. Quietly, he says your name, blinks, and comes back to himself with a sharp intake of breath.

You scoot forward and pin him before he manages to freak out all over again.

"It's okay, take deep breaths, relax…" you repeat over and over, struggling to keep the much larger and heavier (and _stronger_) Barnes from doing any more damage.

"Oh Christ," he swears, "Please tell me I didn't hurt anyone."

"They got out before things got that bad," you assure him, pulling back as he settles down. "They're all fine. Worried half-to-death about you, but otherwise fine."

"When did you get here?" he asks. "I thought you were upstate."

"I came down on the bike after Natasha called and told me what happened," you explain, giving him a quick once-over to check for any obvious injuries.

Glancing to the side, he notices that his arm is missing and tries to turn away from you, pressing further into the wall.

"Don't," he says as you reach to turn him back toward you. "It's fine, it's—"

"It is _not_ fine," you scold, prying his fingers loose. Even without being able to see all the details, you can tell that the original amputation was done quite poorly. Your fingers ghost around the edges of the socket, pressing gently into the metal cup that serves as a connecting point for the arm itself.

"Bloody butchers," you spit, anger curdling in your stomach like week-old milk.

"I was awake," he says. "When they did it."

You can feel all of the scar tissue around the edges of the artificial socket, the worst snaking down over the side of his ribcage, lightning shaped and thick where the damage was severe.

You sit back on your haunches and catch his eyes as they try to avert yours.

"On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you have ever felt in your life, how bad does your arm hurt on a daily basis?"

"Eight," he breathes. "Sometimes eight-and-a-half."

"Did you tell anyone that it was this bad?"

He shakes his head 'no.'

"Steve told me you've been refusing to talk to the psychologist," you say, changing the course of the conversation.

"She's an idiot," he grinds out, suddenly tense.

"Can you be more specific?" you ask, inching closer to him. Lost in his thoughts, you're able to get both hands on his injured arm and shoulder without him seeming to notice.

"All she tells me is to 'let the past go,' that it can't hurt me anymore, you know: psycho-babble bullshit," he says, banging his good fist against the wall behind him. "She doesn't know what she's asking me to do. I can't just _forget_."

"Well I doubt she has much experience with anything even remotely similar to what you went through," you offer as you slowly start to press and pull at the major muscle groups that once governed the movement of his flesh-and-blood arm.

"Stark said she specialized in treating veterans with PTSD," he counters.

"Yes, well, as absolutely horrible as getting blown to hell by an IED is, I don't think it's comparable to being torn apart, rebuilt, brainwashed, tortured, and _frozen_ for almost 70 years."

"Right, that's what I said. She doesn't know what she's talking about," he says, seemingly surprised that you're (sort of) agreeing with him. He grunts a little as you press on a particularly large knot in his shoulder then sighs with relief as the muscle finally relaxes.

"Still, it'll only help you to talk to _someone_ about what's going on in your head, even if it's not her," you suggest. "I'm sure Steve would listen—"

"I don't need to put any more of this on his shoulders. He walks around like a whipped dog as it is," he says. "He can barely look at me without apologizing for something."

"He feels responsible for everything that happened—"

"Well, he's not—"

"Yes, but that's how he is, Barnes. It's how he's always been," you remind him. "Always trying to take on the world by himself, no matter how unfair the odds."

He snorts and starts to lean into your insistant touch; flinching when you find another knot and then slumping slightly as it is smoothed back into place.

"I told you in Queens that I was tired," he says after a few minutes of silence. "That hasn't changed."

"Tired of what? Having people who care about you try to help you find some degree of normalcy?"

"Of being _weak_," he corrects, grabbing one of your hands and stopping your movements. "Even before I was the Soldier, I could take care of myself, could hold my own in a fight. Now I can barely get through _breakfast_ without coming apart at the seams."

"Steve said you were doing much better, that most days you're almost—"

"I do what I have to in order to make my time here more bearable for Steve and the others."

"So it's just an act," you state, rather than ask.

"Most of the time, yeah. And it's exhausting."

You nod slowly, considering the information.

"I know exactly what you mean," you admit, though its hard to get the words out because you know where they'll lead, and this is not a part of your life you enjoy sharing with anyone.

"I doubt that," he says. "Not trying to be an asshole, but your cushy gig teaching some kids at a rich man's school doesn't quite add up to a life in shambles."

"Everyone has a past, Barnes," you answer. "Everyone has a _before_."

He sits back, puzzled, and before you can change your mind or he can interrupt you, the story of your childhood comes spilling out.

"When I was very young," you start, staring at your own hands as you draw them into your lap, "I spent most of my time utterly and completely _terrified_."

"Of…?"

"My father," you admit. "He was… a bully, and a beast of a man. A drunk who would stumble home after spending most of his wages on pints for himself and his mates at the pub and then beat on his wife because dinner had gone cold while we waited for him."

You look up at the ceiling, trying very hard not to picture your father's face, refusing to give him one more second of your particular attention.

"Most nights, my mother would take a few punches and then lock herself in their bedroom or the toilet. He was usually so drunk he'd forget that the doors were just cheap, flimsy things that he could kick in with minimal effort."

"Coward," Barnes spits and you can only nod, because it's true, your father was indeed a monumental coward.

"So by then, he'd either fall asleep on the couch, or he'd come looking for me," you continue. "He'd learned all my hiding places pretty quickly. He'd drag me out of whatever spot I'd crammed myself into and carry on with his rampage. Never where anyone could see the marks, because even when he was blind-drunk, he managed to cover his own ass."

You look up and see the fury on Barnes' face, the noticeble tremble in his good arm as his fist tightens against the floor.

"It's okay," you tell him. "It didn't go on like that forever. Once Ana was born, I wasn't afraid anymore. I wasn't alone, I had _her_ to take care of."

"But you were just a kid," Barnes says. "Someone should have been taking care of _you_."

"I don't disagree, but the reality of the situation was that I only had myself to rely on. My mother was a broken creature, and she numbed herself to the horror of her own life with pills and cheap whiskey," you say with a shrug.

"I didn't have the luxury of feeling sorry for myself. I had to be strong, had to keep my baby sister safe. I stopped being a victim the moment I had someone to protect. The first time he came after me once I made that decision, I beat him bloody with a cricket bat I'd stashed under my bed. He told all his boys that he'd been jumped on the way home from work. 'Three huge fellas!' he told them, the worthless git."

You take a deep breath and carry on.

"For years after that, he minded himself. He was good to Ana, and for a while, I thought maybe we could be like other families, that all we'd needed was a kick in the ass to get our acts together. So I pretended, I made up this entire alternate history where none of those bad things had ever happened, that we _were_ the people I wanted us to be, because it was easier for Ana. For her, it wasn't pretend, it was just how her life was. Does that make sense?"

He nods, "That's what you mean about understanding how exhausting it is."

"Yes, well, that fantasy shattered when I came home early from school one afternoon. I was 12, Ana was a toddler, and I could hear her _screaming_ from our bedroom."

"He hit her?"

"With the broadside of a belt," you admit. "Across her face. Because she'd tracked mud into the house from the garden."

"What'd you do?" he asks, still grinding his closed fist against the floor.

You take a deep breath, and meeting his eyes, admit the secret that only one other person knows.

"I killed the son of a bitch."

-To Be Continued-


	4. Chapter 4

_The End of the Line_

The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Mutant!Reader

Part II; Chapter 2

* * *

><p>"Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones."<p>

-Thich Nhat Hanh

* * *

><p>"It was the first time I changed," you continue. "Mutations can go un-triggered for a lifetime in some people. For most, things take a turn when puberty hits. For others, a traumatic event."<p>

"Like watching your kid sister take a beating…" he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Well, he didn't get another chance," you assure him. "One moment I was me, and the next—" you snap your fingers for emphasis, "-I was our neighbor's Malinois. Dad barely had time to turn 'round before I had him flat on his ass with my teeth in his throat. Shook him apart like a rabbit."

"Jesus," he swears. "Does Ana remember any of this?"

"No, thankfully. She was too young. As far as she knows, a dog really _did_ get into our flat and kill our dad; she even thinks he died protecting her, and I didn't tell anyone, police included, anything different."

"You did the right thing," he says with a heavy finality that will brook no arguments. "He wouldn't have stopped. People like that never do."

"Look, my point wasn't to regale you with the pathetic story of my early childhood," you say, leaning forward and playfully slapping the side of his boot. "I told you, I'm not a victim, so I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me just because I drew some shitty cards at the outset."

"You trying to tell me to suck it up?" he asks, a little gravel in his voice.

"No," you laugh. "I'm not very good at this am I?"

"Keep talking."

"My _point_ is that you'll only be a victim as long as you allow yourself to be. Bad shit happened to you, and it's going to leave a mark—maybe a lot of marks in your case—but it doesn't have to define you. No one is just one thing."

"I get what you're saying," he says after a while. "I just don't know where to start."

"Find someone to protect," you tell him. "The moment you do that, you're free."

You both sit in what might be described as companionable silence until Tony Stark's insufferable voice comes blaring out of the intercom.

"Uh, hate to break up this Kodak Moment guys, but do you think we can get the Tin Soldier out of my medical bay now?"

"How much of that did you hear, Stark?" you shout at the ceiling.

"Well I have a right to listen in on the entire conversation, seeing as this building belongs to me, but—"

"Don't worry," a pleasant female voice interrupts. "I told JARVIS to keep him out of the intercom system until things calmed down in there. He didn't hear anything you would consider private."

"That was _you?!_" you hear Stark ask in the background just before the intercom goes silent.

"Pepper Potts," Barnes supplies at your look of confusion. "Tony's better half."

"Someone send a letter to the Pope," you chuckle. "Any woman who can tolerate that man deserves to be canonized."

"He's actually a good guy," Barnes insists. "Once you get past all the bravado."

"Have to take your word for it," you mutter, getting up on your feet. "We haven't crossed paths that often, but he's always seemed like a bit of a diva."

Slowly, Barnes stands as well, his good arm reaching across his chest to cover his injury once more.

"What, you afraid Nat won't think you're pretty?" you tease, motioning to the empty socket and his attempt to hide it.

He snorts and looks away.

"She's not my type," he says.

"Too bold?"

"Too _Russian_," he growls, and you're surprised when he reaches for you to help regain his balance.

"Dizzy?" you ask.

He only grunts in response, still wobbly despite the assistance, so you take the initiative and snake one arm around his back to prop him up as best you can. He stiffens for a moment, then slowly relaxes. Another moment of adjusting and he finally drapes his good arm across your shoulders, resigning to leave the cybernetic implant visible.

Carefully, you both navigate through the remains of Stark's state-of-the-art medical facility. Barnes is silent, but you can tell every step is a struggle. He's worn thin, and it won't take much to send him back over the edge.

After what seems like a lifetime, you get him to the only damned door in the room and bang on it twice.

"Rogers?" you ask, leaving Barnes to lean against the adjacent wall.

The door retracts in the blink of an eye and Steve edges inside. "Everything okay?"

"All clear," Barnes pants. "Sorry about throwing a table at you."

"No sweat," Steve says with a lopsided grin. "What's a table between friends? Besides, I blocked it."

"Barely," Barnes counters, cracking his eyes open.

"Yeah, adorable banter aside, can I please get in there to see how bad the damage is?" Stark interrupts, squirming his way through, though he pauses once he catches sight of you.

"Tony Stark," he says, extending a hand. "I don't think we've had the pleasure of meeting…"

"Behave," the female voice from the intercom—Pepper Potts, Barnes had said—calls from the hallway. She sidles inside, patting Barnes on the chest in a motherly fashion, and then grabs Tony by his ear.

"Ignore him, he's harmless," she says and drags him off into the destroyed room.

"I think I'm going to write that letter myself," you murmur, though it must be louder than you intended because Barnes barely chokes back a bark of laughter.

"I don't get it," Steve says, looking between you both.

"It's nothing," you assure him, before slipping under Barnes' outstretched arm once he's ready to move again. "Let's get him to his room, yeah?"

Rogers nods and leads the way back to the elevator. After telling JARVIS where you want to go, and accepting the A.I.'s apology for allowing Tony to activate the intercom earlier, all three of you get off on the floor designated as "Guest Quarters."

Thankfully, Barnes' room is right across from the elevator, and with Steve's help you get him inside and seated on what passes for a bed in the incredibly austere room.

"Well, this doesn't look_ anything_ like a prison," you drawl, taking stock of the bare walls, bare shelves, grey paint, and absence of absolutely anything frivolous or personal. There aren't even sheets on the bed.

"Dr. Stapleton suggested it," Rogers says defensively. "She feels that too much stuff could be overwhelming. We're introducing things gradually."

You nod, utterly unconvinced.

"I'd like to have a chat with Dr. Stapleton, if that could be arranged," you say. "I'm curious as to what her plan is, and if she has one."

"Um…" Steve hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Will you be polite?"

"Rogers, I'm English. I'm _always_ polite, even when I'm insulting someone."

"You're not planning on _insulting_ her, are you? She comes highly recommended."

"So did that giant wooden horse Virgil was always going on about," you chuckle. "I'm not going to _bite_ her. I just want to get a feel for her approach, because right now, I think it's pretty shit."

You look around the room again.

"I mean, she _does_ know he was imprisoned, doesn't she?"

"Can you two stop talking about me like I'm not here?" Barnes gripes, lying back on the pathetically thin mattress slung over the bed frame like an afterthought.

"Sorry buddy," Steve offers. "You look bushed. We'll leave you to get some shut eye."

"She stays," Barnes insists, and you see no reason to object.

"It's fine," you tell Steve as he hovers in the doorway. "I'll keep an eye on him. He probably shouldn't be alone after having an episode like that anyway."

"Okay, well… just alert JARVIS if anything happens. He knows to contact me and… everyone else."

"Well, hopefully we won't need the _entire_ Avengers team, but I'll be sure to keep that in mind," you gently chide, pushing him out in the hallway.

"Night Buck!" he calls, as cheerful and oblivious as ever.

"Was he always like that?" you ask.

"I'm not sure," Barnes croaks from the bed. "Probably."

You pad over and plop down next to him. "So, are you just tired or is something else going on in that Hydra-addled brain of yours?"

He huffs.

"No one else talks to me like you do," he finally says. "They're all kid gloves, all the time."

"Are you saying that I'm _mean_?" you ask, mock indignation dripping from your voice.

"No," he says. "It's better. I don't feel like…"

"An outsider?"

"Yeah. How'd you guess?"

"Mutant," you deadpan, adding a shrug for good measure. "We get that whole _black sheep_ thing."

He laughs a little, but the brief respite from his concerns crumbles in an instant, and that haunted look is back faster than you thought possible.

"Remembering things?" you ask.

"_Not_ remembering them," he answers. "Which is almost worse."

"Well, I can't think of any place I'd rather be when I'm feeling down than in this lovely room of yours," you needle.

He shrugs and remains silent.

"I have an idea," you tell him, grabbing his good hand and tugging him back up to a sitting position. "Come up on the roof with me."

"What? Why?"

"It's a surprise. Or it will be if we can get it to work the way I think it might," you say, already pulling him onto his feet.

He considers it and scrubs his face with his hand before assenting to your demands.

"Fine, but if we get caught, you kidnapped me."

"Oh yes, I'm sure that'll be totally believable," you snicker. "Besides, you're not a prisoner. You're a_ guest_," you remind him, opening the door and pointing at the words stenciled on the other side.

"See, says so right there. _Guest_ Room 'A'."

"Semantics," he says, but he follows you regardless. You wave your ID badge in front of the elevator and tell JARVIS where you want to go.

"It's not a very safe place," the A.I. warns you. "The updrafts can be rather dangerous."

"Not going to be a problem," you say with a laugh. "In fact, the updrafts are why I'm going up there."

JARVIS doesn't protest any further and you're quickly brought up to the terrace. The wind is indeed intense, and you find yourself shortening your hair to something boyish before realizing that you shifted in front of Barnes.

"There was smoke," he says, eyes wide. "And then your hair was… well, not gone, but… a _lot_ different."

"Each change uses energy," you explain, shouting a little above the sound of the wind racing up the side of the building. "Some changes use more, some use less. It's not really smoke, just particles being pushed away once the energy is used. Like a little shockwave."

You take out your cellphone and send an alert to Ana.

"You awake?" you write.

"Of course," she sends back. "Was worried."

"Everything is OK," you assure her. "On the roof with Barnes."

"Tell him I say hi!"

"Ana says hello," you tell Barnes, not lifting your eyes from the screen.

"Need another favor," you text. "Think you can link his visual and touch processing centers to mine? I want to try taking him along for a flight."

"In theory? I think so?"

"Fewer question marks would make me feel a lot better, little sister."

"Won't know until we try. Do you want to change first?"

"Yeah. Give me a minute and then link us up. If it doesn't work, oh well, but I think this could do a lot for him. Always does for me."

"Promise you'll take me flying when you get home," she texts. "If this works."

"Promise."

"Counting down," she sends back, and you toss the phone to Barnes.

"You might want to sit down for this. And hold on to something."

"What are you going to do?" he yells, his own long brown hair flying into his eyes.

"You'll see," you say laughing at the truth of the statement. You remove all of your clothes and you see him startle until he realizes you've got your leathery not-really-a-catsuit on, having long mastered the constant concentration needed to keep it in place in case you have to lose a shift in a hurry, or move _into_ one in an equal rush. No reason to garner unwanted attention with the unavoidable nudity that exists between foreign forms.

He shouts as you step up onto the railing that serves as a safety to prevent someone stupid enough to come out here falling to their death. You feel Ana buzzing at the back of your brain, waiting for you to change.

You close your eyes and picture what it is you want to become.

_Falco peregrinus_, you repeat to yourself. _Light, quick, aerodynamic. The fastest thing in the sky before Man mucked it all up. Grey, beige, brown. Falco peregrinus_.

In a sudden expulsion of smoke, you change and then Barnes is behind your eyes and you can hear his breath catch in his throat.

You turn your head, watch as he slowly lowers himself into a sitting position, his own eyes distant and glassy.

Ana buzzes in your mind again, and you can feel Barnes inside your wings. He's a passenger-Ana was careful not to give him any control-and when you test the air with a few weak downstrokes, he kicks his legs out.

"Not so fast," he pants. "Let me get used to this."

You just blink at him and wait.

"Eyesight is _really_ good," he breathes, swallowing huge mouthfuls of air.

You turn back to the view of the city and bob your head to the side a few times, focusing the falcon's binocular vision even more.

"Goddamn," you hear him mutter. "Are we actually gonna-?"

And with a single push off the railing, you're airborne, wings beating against the updraft, slicing through it and _using_ it to your advantage.

_Let the wind do the work for you_, you remind yourself. You float there for a moment, drifting on the invisible gusts forced against Tony's hideous building and wait for Barnes to stop swearing behind and below you.

Then, just when he seems to catch his breath, you fold your narrow wings flat to your sides, draw in the fan of your tail and _dive_, straight down, in a stoop that quickly reaches an excess of 200 MPH. Nothing can catch you at this speed, save gravity, and in this body, gravity is a thing to be _laughed at_.

Your plan works.

Above the sound of the wind roaring past; above the constant caterwaul of the sleepless, ceaseless city, you hear it, clear as a bell.

Barnes is laughing, _exulting_, surrendering to the pure joy that no fighter jet or wingsuit can come close to imitating. He can appreciate what this is, what you're trying to show him:

You can be damaged, you can have a past, and scars, and terrible nightmares that leave you quaking in your bed, sweat-drenched and terrified.

But they can't take this from you, not unless you give it up willingly.

You hurtle towards the ground before flaring your wings and tail, catching the wind again and feeling your delicate bones strain against the sudden drag. You tolerate it for a few seconds, having pulled up a bit, before spilling the air from your wings and diving once more.

This process is repeated a several times, all within a single minute, and you level out just above the street, using your tail like a rudder to weave between buildings as tall as canyon walls.

_This is what they can't take from us_, you think, wondering if Barnes can hear your thoughts now that he's sharing space in your head.

You wander out towards the Hudson, using the thermals rising from the heated pavement to conserve energy, and avoid striking out over open water, where a different kind of wing shape would be needed to navigate the wild currents of air that roil over the river.

The sun is setting and the sky is awash in a riot of color. With a flick of your wings you turn and follow the shoreline, chasing it until it empties out into the Atlantic.

Ana buzzes in your head again, and you realize that time is up; she's held the connection as long as she can. Reluctantly, you turn back toward the Tower, gaining altitude with a bit of effort and then gliding most of the way to the terrace where you left Barnes.

Delicately, and with admirable precision, you alight on the railing, shuffling your feathers as you settle down.

Ana disconnects you both, and upon feeling Barnes leave your head, you shift back, giddy and breathless, nearly falling backward into the open air.

A strong arm encircles your waist and pulls you to safety, not letting go until your bare feet touch the rough concrete of the roof.

"That," Barnes says, "was incredible."

You nod, smiling like an idiot, still high on the adrenaline of the flight.

"I know. It's my favorite thing in the world. Nothing better," you say, before being pulled into a rough embrace against Barnes' chest.

"Thank you," he says before letting go and taking a step back. "I don't know how I'm going to repay you for that."

"Remember it," you tell him, taking his hand and leading him back inside to the elevator. "When things get bad, remember flying with me."

"Okay," he promises, and you both descend back inside Avengers Tower, minds quieted, happy, and _free_.

-To Be Continued-


	5. Chapter 5

_The End of the Line_

The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Mutant!Reader

Part II; Chapter 3

* * *

><p>"Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones."<p>

-Thich Nhat Hanh

* * *

><p>You drop Barnes off at his room with the promise of returning with sandwiches. He seems reluctant to let you go on your own, but you assure him that it'll be fine, and you won't be long.<p>

He nods, and disappears inside, leaving the door cracked.

No more than 10 minutes later, you're scurrying back with two plates loaded with stacked roast beef sandwiches that have already got your mouth watering and your belly grumbling with anticipation.

He's sitting on the floor next to the bed, which you don't bother asking about because it's _Barnes_ and you've already discussed his and Steve's bizarre relationship with soft sleeping surfaces.

"Here we are," you say, handing him a plate and sitting cross-legged opposite his spot against the wall. "Hope you're not a vegetarian."

He shrugs and picks up the sandwich, but freezes with it halfway to his mouth. You catch a tremble in his arm, like some invisible force is keeping it locked in place.

"Barnes?"

He puts the sandwich down, breathing hard through his nose, his jaw set hard and grim.

"I had to wait for permission," he finally explains. "Some days I don't even think about it, but others…"

"Would it help if I told you to eat?"

He nods, but refuses to make eye contact with you.

"Go ahead and eat as much as you like, and if you want more, just tell me."

In a flash, he crams half the sandwich into his mouth and you're momentarily afraid he'll choke. There's a shimmer of tears in his eyes as he chews, swallows, tears off another mouthful, and repeats.

"Easy," you tell him, reaching over to put a hand over his to keep him from stuffing the rest of it down his throat. He jerks back as if you're moving to strike and pulls the plate off to the side, protecting it.

"Barnes… _James_. Look at me," you say quietly.

Darting, furtive blue eyes finally connect with yours and he slowly puts the plate down, swallowing whatever is currently in his mouth and dropping the rest into his lap.

"Sorry," he breathes. "Conditioning."

You have an idea of what Zola and Hydra had done to break this man's will so severely that even eating _food_ became a disciplinary exercise, and it infuriates you.

"We'll put it on our list of things to work on," you tell him, handing over the other half of your sandwich. "Try again, but slowly. Actually taste the food. Enjoy it."

"Still seems like a strange concept," he tells you, and you can see that it's a struggle for him to restrict himself to a smaller bite, though he manages to do as you ask.

"Enjoying things?"

"And wanting them. Especially out loud."

"But you do want things?"

"Yes," he admits, and you swear you detect the tiniest blush spreading across the bridge of his nose. "I did then, too, lots of things."

"Like?"

"Putting a stop to what Hydra was up to," he says, staring at the sandwich pressed between flesh-and-blood fingers.

You blink a few times, trying to figure out what he means, but he spells it out for you a moment later.

"I could have done it, you know," he says, taking another bite. "There were so many opportunities, so many times when my leash was long enough that I could have gotten away with it. Just one shot, just _one_, and it would have all been over."

"You shouldn't think like that," you tell him, grabbing the toe of his boot.

"Would have saved a lot of lives," he counters, jerking his foot back and out of your reach. "But I was too much of a coward to do it."

"Well I'm glad you were," you reply. "And if it makes me selfish, so be it, but I'm _glad_ you didn't off yourself fifty, or sixty years ago because all you'd have been to me is a chapter in a history book, a sad story told by a tour guide at some museum."

"You'd be better off if that _was_ all you knew about me," he says, finishing the last of the sandwich.

This time you reach all the way across, lightning fast, and slap him. Not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to get his attention.

"Don't ever think you can decide what's best for me," you warn. "I'm your _friend_, James Buchanan Barnes, because I _want_ to be, even if you're broken, and a bit touched in the head, even with the metal arm, and the mule-headed stubbornness you seem to have confused for a virtue."

"A friend? Is that what you are?" he asks, as if he's stunned by the very concept.

"I'm in your corner," you tell him, raising your hand again to smooth away the red mark you left on his cheek. "I've got your back, if you'll let me."

"What if I don't want any more friends?" he asks, narrowing his eyes at you.

"You've got one anyway," you shrug.

He lifts his hand to the one against his face and curls his fingers around yours.

"I _do_ want things," he says. "So many things, I just don't know how to get them anymore."

"Reaching for them is a good start," you tell him, feeling the last of your anger fizzle away.

He shifts his eyes away from yours and nods.

"Okay," he says, and faster than you can follow, he slides his good hand up your arm and pulls you toward him. Caught off-balance, you find yourself practically in his lap, and before you can ask him what the hell he's doing, his hand is your hair and his lips are on yours, hesitant and shy.

It's the barest of contact, hardly worthy of the word "kiss," and then he lets you go.

You cover your mouth with a hand and push yourself away from him.

"I'm sorry," he says, reaching for you again. "I don't know why I did that."

You just nod and get to your feet.

"I should go find my room," you tell him, swallowing hard against the panic rising in your throat. _This_ was not part of the plan. You grab your backpack where you'd dropped it off after bringing Barnes up here earlier in the day.

"Wait, no," he says, standing with a little more difficulty than he'd probably likes. "I do know why I did that. I _wanted _to do that. Have wanted to do it for a while."

"You shouldn't have," you tell him, still too stunned to really be angry yet. "You're in no state to be thinking about that, and when you _are_ ready, it can't be with me. It just can't."

"Why?" he asks, a hint of desperation and hurt in his voice. "Is it because I'm…" he trails off. "Is it because of The Soldier?"

You shake your head. "No, don't be stupid, I don't care about any of that."

"Then why?" he asks again, taking a step towards you.

"Because _I_ can't," you clarify. "I have responsibilities. Ana will always come first. She will _always_ be my priority. I cannot have those kinds of feelings for you, Barnes. I'd end up hurting you and would hate myself for it."

"I don't need to come first," he says. "Or second, or 200th, I just—"

"You've hardly stepped outside this tower since you were brought in," you interrupt. "This happens all the time to people under sequestration and quarantine. They develop what they _think_ are normal, healthy romantic attachments to the person taking care of them."

"Don't quote some shit you read in a textbook," he snaps. "I'm not an idiot, and I wasn't born yesterday. I'm not Adam, and you sure as shit aren't Eve. You're not the first woman I've ever met."

"My answer is 'no'," you tell him, finally breaking away and heading for the door. "I'm not going to do something I know will end in disaster and leave you hurting worse than when I found you."

"It's _when_ you leave that I hurt worse!" he argues. "Please don't go."

"Goodnight, Sergeant Barnes," you tell him, still facing the door. "I would appreciate it if in the morning, we act like this entire _thing_ did not happen."

"Screw that," he spits. "I'm not sorry for doing what you told me to, what I _wanted_ to do, and screw you for thinking you can decide what's best for _me_ not five minutes after declaring that I'm not allowed to do the same to you!"

"That's different," you tell him, glancing back over your shoulder. "I haven't had my grey matter electrocuted into oblivion by madmen. I haven't been _tortured_, or made to kill innocent people. I _know_ who I am; who the hell are _you_?"

You regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth, and the harm they do is immediate and unmistakable in his face and eyes.

"Okay," he says. "I understand."

He reaches over your head and pulls the door open.

"You should go now," he says, before turning away and sitting back down on the floor.

"Barnes… I'm sorry, I—"

"Just go."

So you do, you walk out and close the door softly behind you. In a daze, you pick the room furthest from his and step inside. You absently notice that it's well-appointed and comfortable; a far cry from Barnes' empty quarters, before crawling into bed with your clothes still on.

"I'm such an idiot," you say into your pillow, wondering how on Earth you got to this point when things had been going so well.

Knowing she's asleep and won't see it until morning, you send a text to Ana.

"Be home earlier than expected. Things took a turn tonight. Don't ask. See you for dinner."

You wake up a few hours later with a headache. Rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palms, it takes a few moments to realize that you don't get headaches, not since you were 12, and the pounding in your head is strangely familiar.

Grumbling, you grab your phone off the floor and see 22 missed calls from Ana, and more texts than you thought possible. They range from "Are you okay?" to "ANSWER THE PHONE, JERK!" and you figure she must have finally gotten fed up and resorted to banging around in your head until you woke up.

You call back and she picks up immediately.

"About time!" she yells. "I was worried, you idiot!"

"Not so loud," you tell her, wincing and holding the phone away from your ear as she continues to let loose with a torrent of verbal abuse.

"And another thing," she fumes, after spending roughly 15 minutes outlining all of your various character flaws and short-comings, "who the hell do you think you are blaming _me_ for your relationship issues?"

"Excuse me?" you ask, feeling your own irritation flare up.

"Yeah, that's right, I _looked_," she says. "I was trying to make sure you were alive after finding that _terribly_ vague and ominous text, and I_ know_ what you said to Barnes!"

"This conversation ends _now_," you growl. "At least until I get home, and then we're going to have a _very_ long discussion about you keeping your nosey, grubby psychic fingers OUT of my head!"

"Oh, do shut up," she throws back at you, refusing to back down as she normally would. "I'm not a baby anymore, I don't need you to hover over me like some ruddy helicopter; I need you to back off and get a life of your own!"

"Ana, you don't know what you're talking about, despite what you think you saw while _pilfering_ through my memories. I can't—"

"We're not on our own, anymore," she says, and you suddenly realize how grown-up she sounds, and are left wondering when that happened. "And you haven't been taking care of me without help for a long time, not since Dr. MacTaggert."

"They're not family," you argue. "It's different."

"The hell it is," she counters. "They took us in when they didn't have to, and I'm sorry—I really am—but you need to give me some room to breathe. If you want to push Barnes away, you'll do it on your own. I'm not going to be your _crutch_, your excuse."

You're left with your mouth hanging open, flabbergasted.

"But we're a team," you finally say. "It's always been me and you."

"Things change," she says. "I'll always need you, you're my sister, but we both need to be our own people."

"I made a right mess of things," you tell her, after letting her declaration of independence sink in.

"Yeah, you did," she replies, sighing into the phone. "Probably going to have to do _a lot_ to make up for it."

"I don't know what you're implying and if you _are_ implying anything, you'd better get your head out of the gutter before I send Ms. Munroe up to talk to you about the Birds and the Bees."

"You wouldn't," she says, suddenly sounding her age.

"Oh, I would," you tell her. "And I'd suggest she ask for you to write up a report about what you learned."

There's a long silence on the other end and then:

"You're evil."

"I know, a real witch."

"Not the word I was thinking of," she says. "So are you staying in the city?"

"Probably. It'll be up to him, really. After I go talk to him, hat-in-hand. I hate apologizing."

"I know," she says. "You're pretty bad at it."

You lie back on the bed, already feeling overwhelmed by the task set before you.

"This is going to suck, isn't it?"

"Quite a bit, I expect," she says, laughing softly. "But you'll survive."

"Always do," you tell her before saying goodbye and hanging up.

You decide to shower and change before attempting to undo the damage done last night. It also provides some time to gather your thoughts and figure out how to go about this.

Eventually, you find yourself standing in front of his door, wet hair piled up in a messy bun, skin still pink from the scalding water you'd washed up under.

You stand there for an embarrassingly long time, too afraid to knock and even _more_ afraid to walk away. You're fairly certain that if you don't get this over with now, things will never be mended and the gulf you'd so thoroughly dug last night will remain long into posterity.

The door clicks open with your hand still hovering in the empty air, and Barnes is blinking at you from the dark confines of his room. He looks terrible; the circles under his eyes appearing more like bruises, and there's a weariness there that you haven't seen since Brooklyn.

"I could see the shadow from your feet under the door," he says, not stepping aside to let you in.

"Oh, right," you stammer, slowly lowering your hand. You look past him into the room. "Can I come in? There are some things I need to say to you, about what happened last night."

"Not necessary," he says, still refusing to move. "You made your point."

"Yes, well, that's what I want to talk to you about," you reply. "If you'll let me."

He doesn't say anything more, but steps back into the darkness of the room, all the way to the edge of his bed, before sitting down.

You slip inside and shut the door, resting against it as you once again try to get your thoughts in order.

"Ana called," you start. "And had some very choice words about my behavior, about what I said to you, and my reasons for saying it."

Nervous, you find yourself fidgeting, eventually sliding down against the door to sit.

"I'm sorry for insulting you; it was cruel and uncalled for. You've been through an unprecedented trauma and I shouldn't have thrown it in your face. I certainly shouldn't have used it as a way to drive a point home. That was truly bad form. If I could take it back, I would."

He doesn't say anything, choosing to stare at his feet rather than look at you. You accept that whatever fragile trust had existed between you is gone, shattered by your own carelessness and fear.

"It was also unfair to use Ana as an excuse to avoid getting close to you, or anyone else. I don't…" you look off to the side, angry at yourself for struggling with even admitting this much vulnerability. "I don't trust many people," you finally grind out. "My father's parting gift to me, I suppose. His legacy."

You put your head down on your knees, and interlace your fingers behind your head.

"The truth is, I'm _afraid_," you tell the floor, because it's easier this way. Having to spill your guts while he refuses to react at all hurts too much.

"I don't know what it means to want someone else involved in my life and all the stupid drama that comes along with it. And I can't quiet the voice in my head that insists this isn't _real_, that you're confusing gratitude with affection, and that eventually you'll wake up and realize what a mistake this all was, and—"

He's crouching in front of you, lifting your head off of your knees and thumbing away the tears you didn't realize were slipping from your eyes.

"It's okay," he tells you. "I know the difference between the two; gratitude and affection. I am grateful that Steve kept chasing after me, and that he convinced you to help. I'm very grateful that you're here, because God knows my head is quieter when you are. But this…" He motions between you both. "This isn't just gratitude. I don't know a lot, there's so much still missing or so ugly and painful that I can't make myself look, but I _know_ that."

"I'm practically a stranger," you protest weakly.

"So we'll slow down," he says, and you can pick up on some of the anxiety you heard in your earlier argument creeping back into his voice. He's afraid you'll bolt. "Maybe I'm wrong, and we'll just end up friends, like you said. But you can't go. I'll lose myself again, and I can't—" he chokes on his words and closes his eyes.

"I can't keep going like this," he finally says. "I just _can't_."

You nod and he finally exhales, head dropping to rest against yours.

"So you'll stay?"

"For the weekend," you tell him. "Then I have to get back to Westchester."

"But you'll come back?"

"Every weekend, if you like," you answer. "If that's what it takes to get you well again."

He nods and takes another deep breath.

"You look like crap, by the way," you say, slowly releasing the tension that has been wound so tight between you both. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"No," he says. "Dreams were all bad, and I kept waking up."

"Tell me about them," you say, drawing him down to sit on the floor with you.

He looks at you quizzically, but allows himself to be pulled into a sprawled sitting position. You lean against him and bring his good arm around your shoulders, keeping your hand wrapped around his.

"You sure you want this in your head?" he asks.

"No," you answer. "But it's better than leaving you to face it alone."

So he tells you about the monsters in his dreams, about the memories that serve as nightmares, about Zola, and Pierce, and the missions that haunt him for their depravity and violence. He tells you about falling from the train, of believing—even as he plummeted to what should have been his death—that Steve would find a way to save him, and of the bitter disappointment when the ground rose up to meet him anyway, shattering his body and sealing his fate.

You listen, and feel something tighten in your chest; the promise you made to Rogers about joining the search for what remains of Hydra hardening to something with a core of steel.

You're not going to just_ hunt_ these animals down. You're going to _hurt _them. Someone once told you to never make the fight personal, to simply do what has to be done and nothing more. Revenge, he had said, is the desire of lesser men, and that's probably true.

Good thing you're not a man.

-To Be Continued-


	6. Chapter 6

_The End of the Line_

The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Mutant!Reader

Part II; Chapter 4

* * *

><p>"Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones."<p>

-Thich Nhat Hanh

* * *

><p>Eventually, Barnes exhausts himself, falling silent and introspective. You let him brood, unwilling to force him to exorcise all his demons in a single sitting. Every man needs a few secrets, and despite your chatty nature, you've learned the value of <em>not <em>prying. Enough withdrawn, angry kids have passed through your office, simmering with attitude and unbridled resentment, for you to have learned when to push and when to back off.

"You should try to get a few hours sleep," you finally suggest, leaning forward and brushing some of his hair from his eyes.

He nods, choosing to remain silent, and manages to get on his feet without help.

"Will you—" He starts, staring blankly ahead and swaying slightly.

"I'll just be out in the common area," you tell him. "I'll keep an ear out, so if you need anything, give us a shout."

He hesitates and you consider that he might want you to stay _in_ the room, but a moment more and he's slouching towards the bed, which he practically collapses into.

You're surprised that he didn't just curl up on the floor but decide not to question it. Maybe this is a good sign; he's willing to adapt and change. Quietly, you follow, and manage to tug off his boots while he watches through half-lidded eyes. You grab a folded blanket from one of the shelves and drape it over him.

"I know: you don't get cold," you tell him, tucking the end of the blanket around his feet. "Humor me."

He nods again and turns his face into the pillow before letting out a long, shuddering sigh.

"I'll come check on you in an hour, okay?"

He shuts his eyes and you take that as your cue to leave, padding out of his room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

You ask JARVIS to monitor his heart rate and breath sounds, and an hour into your meditation exercise on the long balcony bordering the common room, the A.I. is alerting you to a significant change in both. You're back in Barnes' room in an instant, and slowly-but-surely, draw him out of another nightmare.

"It was that last mind wipe," he tells you, chest heaving as he tries—and fails—to catch his breath. "Just before the Triskelion."

You nod, having witnessed the memory (at least to a certain point), and sit with him until he's got a hold of himself, more exhausted now than before.

"How much sleep have you managed to get since being here?" you ask.

"I don't know. Not a lot," he says, then hesitates. "But I don't think I slept a lot as The Soldier, either. Not when I was working, anyway. Maybe I don't need as much sleep as a normal person."

"It might actually _be_ the cryogenic suspension that's damaged your sleep patterns," you observe. "Your brain probably doesn't know how to enter R.E.M. sleep normally anymore, and instead you're just dropping straight in. That can cause all kinds of problems."

You reach over and press a hand against his chest, feeling his heart pounding with fear and adrenaline. Your hand drifts up to press two fingers against his carotid as a second check to back up the first.

"Your heartbeat isn't what one would consider _erratic_, per se, but it's way too fast, even for having just come out of a nightmare. Do you feel any chest pressure when you wake up like that?"

He nods, "But it goes away after a while."

"Human beings—even the super soldier variety—aren't meant to handle this kind of physical and mental stress. Dropping you in and out of suspension probably masked the overarching issue, but now that you're free from Hydra, it's all catching up."

"Great," he says. "Can you fix it?"

You smile sadly at him and shake your head.

"I'm not even a doctor of the most generic sort yet, Barnes. I'm winging most of this as I go."

"Well you're the only one I can tolerate for more than a few minutes," he sighs. "So I guess I'm stuck with you."

"And with that stunning vote of confidence…" you drawl, checking his heart rate again. It's slower, along with his breathing, and he doesn't seem quite so feverish.

"What do you do most of the day?" you ask, a thought popping into your head with alarming clarity.

"Whatever Steve and Stark want me to do," he answers immediately. "A lot of testing in the lab, Steve showing me books full of old pictures of Brooklyn and the war, and seeing that goddamn shrink."

"That could be part of the issue as well," you observe. "Whatever Zola did to you during the war and _since_, it's obviously affected your physiology. You might have been asleep for most of the last 70 years, but when you were active, it's probably safe to assume you were almost always moving, right?"

He nods, trying to follow your train of thought.

"What I'm saying is… When you leave a high-performance vehicle to sit in the garage, things start to fall apart on their own. The machine works better when it's used on occasion. Get the gears pumping and the motor running, as it were."

He raises an eyebrow at your metaphor, a slow smirk spreading across his face.

"You thinkin' about getting my _motor running_?" he asks, a bit of the Brooklyn boy he once was creeping back into his voice.

You roll your eyes and stand up from the edge of the bed.

"Don't be crass," you scold. "When was the last time you worked yourself to the point of collapse? Sparred? Went for a run around the city?"

He stares at you like you suddenly started speaking in Mandarin before finally answering, "Who in this building would be stupid enough to _spar_ with me?"

You raise your hand, grinning like the idiot you apparently are, and then leaning up on your tiptoes to exaggerate the gesture.

"No," he says. "No way."

"What, afraid of getting your ass kicked by a woman?" you ask. "I don't have any qualms about teaching some old man a thing or two, but if you're going to hide behind your quaint 1940s sensibilities about _gender_…"

The baiting works, and a few minutes later, you're both stalking down to the gym; you eager to put him through his paces, him grimly determined to prove that he's not to be trifled with.

In the gym, both Stark and Rogers are "racing" on two of the treadmills, though Stark is doing so in his Iron Man gear, which is clearly cheating.

"Hey!" Rogers exclaims, slowing the treadmill down to a brisk jog so he can speak more easily.

"Was going to come up and check on you guys once I finished here," he says, barely having broken a sweat. "Gonna, um, use the bikes or something?" he asks, looking between you both.

"No," you tell him. "We're going to fight."

"Yes!" Stark shouts, both arms raised. "10 bucks says she puts Metal Gear Solid on his ass!"

"Not nice," Steve chides.

"He _broke_ my medical wing," Stark counters. "The _whole_ wing. I don't have to be nice."

"Sorry about that," Barnes says with a shrug.

"Don't worry about it," Stark replies. "I wanted to remodel the floor anyway."

"You just did!" Steve says incredulously. "Like a month ago."

"I'm _eccentric_," Stark explains, as if that clarifies everything. "Besides, Agent Romanoff—excuse me, _Ms_. Romanoff—pointed out a few problems with the initial design. I was going to have to tear it down and start over anyway, so, you kind of did me a favor, Barnes."

"You're… welcome?" Barnes replies, shifting uneasily.

"Gotta say though, it's not going to be a fair fight," Stark continues.

"I tried to tell her—" Barnes starts.

"I mean, with you missing an _arm_ and all."

You cover your laughter with a fake cough, turning away so Barnes can't see the amusement so evident on your face.

"Maybe she can hold hers behind her back," Stark suggests, stepping down from the treadmill and flipping his faceplate up.

"Not necessary," you assure him, and watch as his perpetually-amused face twists into one of abject horror while you deconstruct your left arm, smoke curling around you as the bones, muscle, tendons, and flesh seem to melt away.

"There, level playing field."

"That was awful," Steve mutters.

"The stuff of nightmares," Tony adds.

"I much prefer when you turn into a bear," Steve finishes.

"She can do that?!" Tony asks, clomping after you and Barnes as you wander further into the gym, towards a raised boxing ring set up in the center of the room. Steve follows shortly after, a towel hanging from his shoulder as he pats off the sweat that isn't there.

"That and more," you singsong, rolling into the ring and testing your balance minus an arm. "So what are the terms?" you ask, cocking your head at Barnes as he reluctantly steps inside the ropes.

"I'm not throwing everything I have at you," he says, keeping to the furthest corner. "I know you don't think I can hurt you, but you don't know everything I'm capable of."

You shrug. "Fair enough. No shifting on my part, then. At least not what I can control consciously. The other stuff I usually don't notice unless I'm really concentrating, and I can't do that in a fight."

"Okay," he breathes, sliding into a basic stance. "Steve? You call it, and be ready in case I lose it."

"You guys sure this is a good idea?"

"Nope!" you laugh. "But it was inevitable. I don't like being underestimated."

"I don't—" he starts, and then Tony flicks the ringside bell with his metal-encased hand and you fall into a stance designed to counter the one Barnes has chosen.

"C'mon, Sergeant," you tease, shifting your center of balance to compensate for the loss of your arm's counterweight. "Steve is always saying how much you loved to dance…"

He sets his mouth into a thin line, rolls his arm once, twice, and then it's on.

He comes at you much as you expected; relying on his greater reach and strength to land easy hits that will lay you out if they connect.

_If_.

You twist away, having long ago accepted that unless you change form, you can't go toe-to-toe with anyone approaching Barnes' size or skill. Your body simply isn't made for that. Instead, you listened to people older and wiser than you and focused on mastering your own agility and speed. If you're not trying to _stop_ your opponent (for good), then you needed to learn how to outlast them, or—at the very least—get away until reinforcements arrived.

Annoyed at your refusal to _stand still_, Barnes twists around and raises a knee to strike you in the stomach, but again, you're too fast, and flip backward—one handed—to land several feet away, at the edge of the ring.

"Nice!" Steve laughs, clapping.

Barnes is not nearly so amused. This type of defense; refusing to be hit, always sneaking away at the last second, has the unfortunate side effect of infuriating one's opponent. That can go one of two ways; they'll either lose what focus they have and get sloppy, or become exponentially more dangerous because you're making a fool of them.

"You gonna fight or just run away?" Barnes growls.

"Man has a point," Tony chimes in, leaning against one of the corner posts.

Barnes lashes out with a foot aimed at your head and you drop to the mat, leaving him with nothing but air to cut through. You roll to your feet and sweep a leg out against his. You connect but only manage to make him stumble. It's mad scramble to get out of the way as he brings his good arm down, connecting with the mat but coming close—_too_ close for comfort.

You carry on, nearly breathless, and strike out with your hand, aiming at the spot just above his right kidney. You hit and he hisses in pain but doesn't stop trying to pin you or slow you down. You knew going in that this was a completely one-sided fight, the kind that you can only hope to get _out of_ and not win, but the point was to get Barnes moving again, to use the strength and skills he never asked for, and to remember that not every battle needs to end with someone dead, another ghost to add to his collection.

"How're you feeling, old man?" you ask, dodging another attempted strike.

"_Good_," he snarls, and finally manages to connect, grabbing you by the waist and _slamming_ you onto the mat.

"Got you," he smirks, pressing his forearm against your throat, his legs pinning yours.

"I'll say," you return, "Well done, soldier."

His smile fades and he rolls off of you.

"In a real fight, I would have killed you," he says, twisting away and freeing you to move again. Steve starts to object but you cut him off.

"No, darling, in a _real fight_, you would have been boxing an elephant," you remind him. "This wasn't about your being stronger than I am. You very clearly are."

"Oh God, don't tell Pepper," Tony begs. "She has a thing about elephants. I don't get it, personally, they're just big, and smelly…" he trails off as Steve grabs him by the back of his armored head and drags him from the room.

"You okay?" you ask, rolling onto your knees and craning your head at Barnes, who has his back to you.

"I don't know," he says. "Define 'okay.'"

"Are you going to go catatonic on me?" you ask, nudging him in the ribs.

"It felt right," he says, leaving you a bit confused.

"Winning? Of course it did, I'd imagine you're accustomed to it by now."

"No, not that," he said. "When I had you pinned."

"I'm sorry, Barnes, but I'm not following," you tell him, brow furrowed as you're left grasping at the frayed threads of his thoughts.

"I don't like being touched," he finally answers. "It's part of why I reacted the way I did when Stark was re-attaching my arm. But I had you pinned and all I could think about was how _nice_ it felt to be touching you; that you weren't begging for me not to kill you, or trying to put a bullet in my eye."

You feel heat flush across the whole of your face and realize that you're blushing rather furiously.

"So much of what I remember is painful," he continues. "Any kind of physical contact was punishment, and if not, it was because I was hurting someone else. I hurt a lot of people. Didn't matter if they deserved it or not."

He finally looks at you, hair hanging damp across his cheeks and forehead.

"We can't do this again," he states. "I'll see if Steve will get in here with me, but the next time we share space during a fight, we'll be on the same side, and it'll be for something that matters."

"Do you think I'm going to abandon you because you like to be touched?" you ask. "By _me_?"

"Last night…" he says, eyes questioning. "I'm a bit fuzzy on all the details, because it's been a while-" and now _he's _blushing. "But I'm aware of what I want, and I know you're not on the same page."

"And having me pinned against the mat…" you nod, putting the pieces together.

"Yeah," he admits, breaking eye contact.

"Well that's progress!" you exclaim brightly, making him laugh a bit. You join him and press a chaste kiss to the side of his sweaty head.

"Baby steps," you tell him. "No matter how much we might want to dash to the finish and get on with it."

"Oh yeah?" he asks, smirking.

"Well, the thought has crossed my mind," you tell him. "A woman has needs, you know."

He laughs for real this time.

"Things would have been a lot more fun back in the day if more women thought that were true," he observes.

"Oh really? And how many would have tumbled into your bed, Sergeant?" you tease back, very well aware of his reputation as something of a Don Juan back when he and Steve were growing up.

"A few," he admits with mock seriousness. "But you would have been my best girl, for sure."

The easy use of the old slang catches him off guard, almost as soon as he says it, and the moment shatters into a million pieces. He withdraws back into himself and you know he'll keep himself shuttered away for the rest of the afternoon, if not longer.

"Come on, Rocky Balboa," you tell him, getting onto your feet. "Go take a shower and meet me in the kitchen. I'll make us something to eat."

You both climb out of the ring and return to your rooms to shower and change. By the time he appears in the kitchen, you've already got lunch ready (sautéed shrimp tossed with spaghetti and home-made basil pesto), and you both dig in.

"What do you want to do with the rest of the day?" you ask, absently wondering if the other residents of the tower were purposefully giving you both a wide berth (your run-in with Rogers and Stark in the gym not withstanding), or if the weekends were downtime for the Avengers as well, so long as no alien invasions or government coup d'états were in progress.

He shrugs and shovels more food into his mouth.

"This is good," he finally says. "I like it."

You don't miss the importance of that statement; for him to decide he likes something, without be told or expected to, is significant.

"I can show you how to make it," you tell him. "It's easy."

He shrugs again. "I'm about as useful in the kitchen as Steve. Maybe a little more, but not much."

"Are you two ever going to let me live that down?" Rogers asks, entering the guest floor common area, having changed out of his workout gear.

"No," you both answer simultaneously.

"You almost burned the house down," you remind him. "While Barnes and I were _sleeping_ in it."

Rogers plants himself on one of the other bar stools lining the kitchen island and helps himself to lunch.

"I thought maybe, if you were up to it Buck, we could go catch a picture," he says, and you stifle a snort of laughter.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing, you just sound like my gran," you tell him. "What's playing?"

"The Museum of Modern Art is showing _The Philadelphia Story_," he says with unbridled excitement. "I never got to see it in the theater."

"Never heard of it," you tell him. "But I'll go if Barnes will. I'll need him to translate all the old-timey jargon."

Barnes nods. "I go where she goes."

Steve smiles and clears his plate. "Great! Meet me downstairs in 15 minutes?"

"You should ask Natasha to come along," you suggest, trying your utmost to be casual about it.

"Um, okay," he says, swallowing thickly. "You think that's something she'd want to do?"

"I'd love to," a female voice calls, and now Natasha is sauntering into the common area.

"Don't you people have your own floors?" Barnes asks, gathering up the plates and dropping them off in the sink.

"I wanted to talk to Steve about something and JARVIS told me where to find him," she explains, ignoring Barnes' hostility.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Steve asks, ears flushing red.

"Not important," Natasha assures him. "Wanted to see if you had any plans for tonight."

In no time, all four of you are waiting outside for Happy to bring the car around. You regret not being able to walk, what with the weather being so nice, but Steve has pointed out that a lot of people aren't particularly happy with the Avengers lately, not after the debacle with S.H.I.E.L.D., and taking the car will avoid a lot of unwanted leering and potential confrontations.

The movie is interesting enough, though you spend most of it observing Steve and Natasha out of the corner of your eye. Despite looking like some golden god summoned from the heights of Mount Olympus, Rogers is still the nervous, awkward kid he was before being turned into "the world's first superhero." For her part, Natasha is inexorably cool, patient and forgiving as it takes nearly the entire length of the movie for him to summon the courage necessary to hold her hand.

"This is adorable," you whisper to Barnes. "It's like watching a baby bird learn how to fly."

You hear him laughing against your ear, and the puffs of heated breath make your heart rate climb rather noticeably.

He must pick up on the change as well, and maybe the way you stiffen slightly, and pulls away bit, studying you with unguarded curiosity.

You play dumb, settle back into your chair, and watch as the movie concludes, applauding when everyone else in the theatre does, though your mind is miles away from the film.

You all agree the crowds outside the museum are thick enough that all four of you can safely wander through them without being spotted (you least of all, you haven't had your face splashed over every tabloid for months). Both Steve and Natasha are wearing museum baseball caps purchased in the gift shop, pulled low to hide as much of their faces as possible. If Barnes had been donning the metal arm, he would have caused a riot, but without it, he's simply an imposing figure and not a notorious one.

You nudge Barnes with your shoulder, worried at how quiet he's become since the sparring match, noticing that he'll pipe up just enough to throw Steve off the scent.

"What's going on up there?" you ask, motioning to his head.

"Thinking about things," he says.

"Well that's not vague at all," you reply, huffing.

"Thinking about how different things could have been if certain events hadn't taken place," he grinds out. "And wondering if I'd rather they had or not."

"If you could go back and avoid being captured, you wouldn't do it?" you ask, genuinely puzzled.

"I don't know. I'd either be dead and buried by now, or in some retirement home," he says. "I wouldn't know you."

You blush, unable to hide it out in the open.

"Don't be silly," you tell him. "If by some chance the opportunity ever arises, you damn well better take it, James Barnes."

"If I have the opportunity to travel back in time?" he asks.

"The planet has been invaded by demi-Gods and aliens," you counter. "But _time travel_ is still a ridiculous concept to you?"

He snorts and nudges you back.

"I think I'd rather stick around," he finally says. "Steve's right. The food _is_ better."

A prickle on the back of your neck nearly makes you stop in your tracks. Barnes notices the sudden shift in your mood.

"What is it?" he asks.

"A feeling," you tell him, your heart rate rising in response to whatever it is that's got your instincts in overdrive.

"What kind of feeling?" Natasha asks, apparently having been eavesdropping.

"The kind you don't ignore," you tell her, stepping out of the flow of foot traffic and trying to figure out what's causing the reaction.

"Someone is watching us," you tell them. "And not the cuddly, let's-be-friends kind of someone."

"You sure?" Steve asks, and you can see him switch gears from bumbling schoolboy to a tried-and-tested warrior.

"Positive," you tell him. You try to clear your head and focus on the source of the irritation. "Act like we're all talking about something normal," you insist. "We don't want whoever this is to know we're on to them. Give me some time to pinpoint it."

To their credit, they all huddle up a bit, and Natasha actually _does_ start talking about where to go to eat, her thoughts on the film, whatever keeps the other two nodding their heads and adding a comment every so often.

You pull out your phone and start taking random pictures of the buildings around you, like any tourist might. _Unlike_ a tourist, you direct a shift in your eyes to something more bird-like, using the enhanced vision to start scanning higher vantage points.

"Sniper," you say, as casually as possible. "Or someone doing recon. I'd wager on the first."

"What's the plan?" Natasha asks, holding up a compact to fix her makeup.

You adjust your eyes again, rearranging the light receptor cells to see further on the visible spectrum, now able to pick up on infrared.

And that's when you see it, a narrow beam hovering over Barnes' chest.

"Gun!" you shout, and while most of the people on the sidewalk ignore you, your companions do not, all three managing to duck before a hole is blown into the building you're standing next to. The sound of the shot crackles through the air a second later.

You're off and running toward the building that the shot came from, leaving the other three to be swallowed up by the crowd. You keep your eyes trained on the beam of light that no one else can see, watching as it begins to track you. The shooter has noticed that you're running the wrong way.

You can hear someone screaming your name over the sounds of frightened civilians and the traffic trying to avoid hitting them as they scramble for cover.

You finally break away from the pack and bolt for the doors of the building that the shooter is using as his perch, the pavement exploding twice around your feet as he fires off two more shots. He (or she, to be fair) isn't happy that you've managed to ferret him out, and is undoubtedly at a loss for _how_ you managed to do it.

You charge towards the front doors, and are about to pull them open when you're shoved from behind, throwing you off balance and sending you slamming into the glass instead.

Barnes grabs you by the arm and drags you away, telling you to shut your mouth as you begin to protest, to explain that the sniper is on the roof, probably, and you could have caught him if _someone_ hadn't interrupted the chase.

Separated from Steve and Natasha, he continues to ignore your protestations, finally stopping in a nondescript alley that has a very clear line of sight from one end to the other.

"Are you insane?" he yells, pushing you against the nearest wall. "What the hell do you think you're doing, running off on your own?"

"Chasing the _bad guy_," you snap back.

"No!" he continues, grabbing you by the chin and forcing you to look him in the eye. "Never, _ever_, do that again."

"It's kind of my job, Barnes," you yell back. "In case you've forgotten, I wasn't conscripted into this grand adventure because I can crochet really _lovely_ doilies."

"Never again," he warns. "Not without backup. Whoever he was, he could have killed you."

"Why is this so hard for you to understand: _No he can't._" You shove him off of you. "He could shoot my head clean off, you idiot, and I wouldn't even _feel_ it. Everything would be back where it was before I could even be sure of what happened."

He stares at you for a moment, and for the first time, he seems a little frightened of you and of what you can do.

"Short of simultaneously incinerating every living cell in my body, any injury, no matter how fatal to a normal person, is a temporary inconvenience for _me_. Welcome to the modern world, Sergeant. It only gets weirder from here."

Annoyed by his reaction and all that it implies (because now he knows which of you really _is_ the monster), you make for the nearest exit back to the sidewalk.

"Where are you going now?" he demands, pulling you right back, still angry, eyes still hard and unforgiving. "You think any of that shit matters to me? You think it makes a damn bit of difference that you won't _die_ after getting shot in the head?"

"It should," you counter. "I'm not some delicate 1940s _dame_ that can't cross a puddle for fear of getting her feet wet."

He's on you in a second, pushing you back against the wall (damn him), and then his mouth is on yours, crashing into you with a bruising desperation that causes the breath in your lungs to evaporate.

He pulls away, but only after you're both left panting for air.

"_I_ can't handle watching you get hurt," he finally says, pulling you to him. "It would kill _me_."

And with that, all the self-righteous anger you had felt moments before at his gall, his _nerve_ to tell you not to protect someone you care about, simply vanishes.

"Oh," you murmur into his chest. "Right."

He tilts his head down and breathes into your hair and you can feel the slightest tremor pass through him.

"I don't expect you to be someone you're not," he says.

"Good, because I've no plans to give up my career to stay home and mind the children," you deadpan. "And I don't care what the other husbands at the Country Club have to say about it."

"Is everything a joke to you?" he asks, pulling you tighter to him.

"Coping mechanism," you tell him. "It's a bad habit."

"Just don't go off on your own if you don't have to," he continues. "It's okay to have a partner."

"You offering to be my _sidekick_, James Barnes?"

He snorts.

"Other way around, doll."

"Chauvinist," you accuse.

"Hey, I fully support a woman's right to participate in the workplace," he says, laughing into your hair.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, who else is going to type up my important letters and make me coffee?"

"You're awful," you laugh, shoving him away and letting loose with a flurry of jabs at his good shoulder and chest.

He gathers you up again.

"Promise me," he says. "That you won't do that again."

"Fine," you grumble. "I promise. Happy now?"

"Yeah, actually," he admits. "I am."

-End of Pt. II; To Be Continued in Pt. III-


	7. Chapter 7

_The End of the Line_

The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Reader

Part III

Ch. 1

* * *

><p>"Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet."<p>

-Plato

* * *

><p>Leaving Avengers Tower is harder than you expected.<p>

After providing a full debriefing to several members of the team and Nick Fury (location undisclosed), it is determined that Romanoff is the best candidate for rooting out more details regarding the shooter and who he or she is, who they're working for, and why. It all seems obvious to you—minus the shooter's identity-but Fury insists that there are more players on the board than anyone initially expected, and reveals that Hydra is splintering into new organizations with their own respective agendas. _Mutating_, as it were.

The irony is not lost on you.

Natasha doesn't waste any time. After the meeting, she's off to go pack a "travel bag" which you suspect will contain more firearms than dental floss. She tells Steve to meet her downstairs in an hour to go over the finer points of her strategy, but you strongly suspect _strategy_ will be mentioned precisely _never_.

You dawdle for as long as possible, knowing that you're expected to be back on campus early Monday morning to lead a scheduled lecture on Systematics for your older students. You promise Barnes you'll return to the city on Friday night—situation permitting—and will stay in town for the second attempt to refit his arm and his next appointment with Dr. Stapleton.

His moods have a clearly developed pattern, and he's in a downswing as you wait for Happy to bring your bike out from the tower's subterranean garage. You tell him to keep his chin up, that it's only five days, and he'll do just fine for that long.

"This is stupid," he tells you. "I shouldn't be so attached, but I am."

You retrieve your bike from Happy (who takes far too long to actually _let go_).

"I don't disagree," you tell him, popping your helmet on. "But for whatever reason, you have an easier time finding balance when I'm around. I'm your psychological life raft, as it were."

He scowls at you as you swing a leg over the seat of the bike.

"Stop trying to make this purely clinical," he grouses. "It's insulting."

You laugh and shake your head, "Four days and a bit," you remind him. "That's how long we've spent in eachother's company, Brooklyn and Queens included."

"Sometimes that's all it takes," he insists.

"Maybe," you answer. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see."

He approaches the bike, holding the nearest handle with his good hand.

"We kissed," he says, quiet enough for only you to hear over the purr of the engine. "Tell me you didn't like it. Tell me that much, and I'll put a stop to this whole thing."

"That would be lying," you reply. "An activity I try to avoid whenever possible. But I'm not ready to declare us _soul mates_, Barnes."

He snorts and steps away.

"Me either," he says. "But I've spent too many years not being able to want things, or having to deny what I did want. I'm not going to waste any more time debating something I know is true."

"Fair enough," you nod. "I'll see you on Friday. Behave yourself."

With that, you push away and turn out into the street, leaving Barnes and Happy behind. Happy shouts a farewell, but you're fairly certain it was meant for the bike.

You feel bad insisting on establishing some emotional distance between yourself and Barnes, but fear of close interpersonal relationships aside, this _is_ happening much faster than you think normal or sane. If you were just interested in a fling, and if he wasn't already so damaged, you'd have fewer hangups. That isn't the case however, and whatever this is, it will need to be handled a little more delicately to have any chance of being something substantial.

Not that you're looking to _marry_ the guy or anything. But you're not really a "roll in the hay" kind of woman, and you don't consider Barnes someone you'd want to do that (and only that) with anyway. There _is_ something deeper there, simmering just beneath the surface, but you've convinced yourself to explore it slowly and let it become whatever it's meant to become in good time.

An hour and one seriously backed up exit off the parkway later, and you're home, pulling into the garage where Ana is already waiting for you.

"You're back!" she exclaims, tackling you once you dismount.

"Did you think I'd never return?" you ask, making sure she doesn't get too close to the bike less she burn herself on the still-hot engine.

"Maybe," she says, smirking. "Might have been something there worth sticking around for."

"You're impossible," you laugh, shoving her away and tossing her your backpack. "It's not like that."

"Not _yet_," she needles.

"Inside, upstairs, in bed," you tell her, pushing her towards the door leading back into the mansion. "You have classes tomorrow."

For the most part, the rest of the week passes without incident. There's a short meeting with the Professor, Summers, Logan, and Dr. Grey regarding the events that transpired in the city (because there was no escaping the inevitable headlines about a sniper popping off shots outside of MoMA), and once again you're left grinding your teeth in frustration at their lack of commitment to treating Hydra as a legitimate threat.

The Professor is all cultured concern, expressing his distress at the act of violence and of your becoming a potential target, but he assures you that he has faith in the Avengers and that they can handle their own missions without the X-Men needing to get involved. Still, he does promise to keep a weather eye out for any psychic grumblings related to the shooting, which you (rather begrudgingly) thank him for. At least it's something.

You uphold your promise to Ana and take her for her first flight; 15 glorious minutes spent navigating the thick forests on the edges of the property, surprising her by choosing _Harpia harpyja_ over the Peregrine as it's better suited to the daredevil quick turns necessary for darting through the narrow gaps between the trees. She's delighted and spends the rest of the week begging to go again (which you do, because it _is_ fun and you rarely say 'no' to flying).

The remainder of the week is spent teaching classes, grading papers, and providing some extra tutoring for a few students who are struggling to catch up with the curriculum offered at Xavier's. The majority are eager to learn (and eager to please), but there are one or two who are still so convinced that no one could possibly care about them that they buck whenever an authority figure shows any interest in their behavior, talents, and personal lives.

You remember what it was like to be that way, and with a few sarcastic quips and personal anecdotes (to prove that you're not just feeding them some feel-good bullshit, but actually _get_ where they're coming from), they open up just enough to call it progress. There's still a lot of work to be done; you're not a _magician_ after all, but the tiniest bit of trust is a victory worth celebrating.

Before you know it, it's Friday evening and you're suiting up to return to the city. In the interim, Stark has provided Barnes with a cell phone, which Steve must have shown him how to use because he sends the same letter format text messages despite your repeated attempts to correct him.

Most of the messages come in at night, after he's woken up from some all-too-vivid nightmare. He doesn't call, no matter how often you tell him he can.

"Hello," he sends tonight, as you're heading down to the garage. "Bad one last night. Couldn't stop shaking for hours. One of my missions as TWS. Tell you about it when you get in. –Barnes."

You frown, thumbing back through all the messages you've received from him over the course of the week. They're almost all about night terrors, flashbacks, and nightmares like the one described today. They seem to be increasing in frequency and potency. It makes sense; as his brain continues to heal after years of mind wipes and cryogenic suspension, the jumbled memories are starting to unfurl. You wonder if that's another reason he was wiped and frozen so often; the more missions they sent him on, and the more weight James Barnes had to carry, the more unstable he'd become.

Between the guilt, the subconscious resentment of being Hydra's assassin, and the actual physical damage done to his brain, eventually no amount of slash-and-burn memory erasing would have returned him to combat readiness.

Eventually, you realize, they would have disposed of their broken toy and gone about finding a new one.

The thought of Barnes being so disposable to anyone makes you sick, and once again you feel an intense sort of fury clawing at your guts like a living thing.

"Be there soon," you text back. "I'll make us dinner and we can talk about whatever you want."

You quicken your pace, winding your way through the impressive collection of cars and motorcycles parked inside the garage, some in various states of repair, others bonafide antiques worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.

"This ain't gonna end well, you know," Logan drawls, halfway under one of the cars, covered in grease and looking perfectly content.

"No, I don't," you snap. "And neither do you."

"Yeah I do," he replies, sliding out from under the car and wiping his hands on a towel. "Been there."

"S_till_ there, more like," you chide. "Besides, Barnes isn't some other woman's husband. I don't go around sniffing after people who are clearly unavailable."

"He's about as unavailable as they get," he says, the pitch and cadence of his voice never changing despite your verbal barb. "He's _The_ _Winter Soldier_, girlie, he's not meant for you. Or anyone. Ain't sayin' it because I want to piss all over your parade."

You huff and back your bike out of its spot.

"Believe it or not, I do give a shit about ya," he says, tossing the rag to the side. "You're good people, you and the kid. And when he hurts ya—and he will—I'm gonna have to kick his ass."

"Concern noted," you tell him, pulling your helmet on. "But it's not necessary. Barnes is broken, but I know what I can fix and what I can't. He's not a lost cause."

"Not yet," Logan drawls. "But guys like that, like _me_, we don't get better."

"Says the teacher of mutant children and loyal teammate," you counter.

He shrugs. "Chuck showed me a different path," he says. "But don't think I don't struggle to stay on it every goddamn day. You believe Barnes can do that? Screwed up as he is? He doesn't remember his own name half the time."

"Not true," you challenge, wondering where he heard that. "He's in control more often than not lately. Whatever they did to him, he's undoing most of it on his own. I'm just trying to help him sort things out."

Logan sighs and pulls a cigar out from his breast pocket. He jams it in his mouth and chews, contemplating what you've said.

"Still think it's a bad idea," he finally announces. "Still think you should stay out of their business. We got enough problems of our own to deal with."

"That's the wrong attitude," you tell him, shaking your head. "We moan about how the world will fear and hate us once enough people know we exist, and we go on and on about how things would be so much better if everyone could just get along. But in the same breath, we draw lines that divide 'us' and 'them.' _Our_ problems, _their_ problems; _our _enemies, _their_ enemies. These are good people, Logan, and they deserve our help when we can offer it. How else can we ever hope to bridge those gaps?"

"Why do we always have to do the bridge-building?" he asks around the cigar. "Why do _we_ always have to do the heavy lifting?"

You shrug and turn the engine over.

"Someone has to," you say. "If it has to be us every time, I'm okay with that. What I can't stand is this silly story we keep telling ourselves, hoping one day it'll be true."

"What story is that?" he asks, walking along with you as you roll the bike out of the bay.

"That we've been left in the dark; that we have to do this alone if we want to survive."

"We are," he says, pulling the cigar out of his mouth and examining it. "We do."

"I don't believe that's true," you tell him, revving the engine. "Not one member of the Avengers has made me feel that way, not for a single second. They let me in, with only the word of Steve Rogers to vouch for me. All we've done is bar the door and shove all the furniture against it, hoping to keep everyone out."

"Safer that way," he says.

"Until someone bigger and meaner than us shows up with a battering ram. Then we really _are_ on our own. They'd have our backs, they'd _be_ our cavalry, and we could be theirs. That's all I'm saying. It makes sense."

He lights the cigar and takes a long pull.

"Just be careful," he says, fragrant smoke curling up and over his head. "Don't do anything idiotic."

"Thanks, _sensei,_" you reply before gunning the engine and rocketing through the front gates of the school.

You make it to the tower without much trouble, and Happy is waiting for you at the front of the building once more.

"There's my girl," he coos, taking control of the Superleggera once you dismount. "You missed Uncle Happy, didn't you? Yes you did…"

"Do not do anything untoward with my bike," you grumble, handing him your helmet. "There are laws against that sort of behavior."

"Ha. Funny," he says. "So nice to see you again."

"Just be gentle," you throw back. "She can be a bit skittish."

He laughs and tells you your badge should still work, and that Barnes has been anxiously awaiting your arrival all day.

"I can't tell which of them is worse, him or Steve," he says, chuckling. "Like two lovesick puppies."

You roll your eyes and step inside the massive building, greeting JARVIS as he welcomes you back and provides some information about everyone's status.

"Ms. Romanoff is still on assignment," he tells you. "I believe Captain Rogers can bring you up to speed with her progress, such that it is."

"I take it information is slow to develop?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Whoever the shooter was, he knows what he's about. A professional, to be sure," JARVIS answers.

"Perfect," you grumble, waving the badge in front of the elevator. "When is she due to surface?"

"Undetermined," the A.I. replies. "She seems thoroughly invested in finding out as much as possible. I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't return until she's discovered what she's looking for."

You nod, chewing your bottom lip as the elevator brings you swiftly to Barnes' floor.

"Once again, madam, if you need anything please do not hesitate to ask," JARVIS tells you.

You step out of the elevator and glance down the long hallway towards Barnes' room, but you can hear music drifting in from the other direction, from the common area.

"_It seems to me I've heard that song before_," a woman sings.

"_It's from an old familiar score._

_I know it well, that melody._

_It's funny how a theme recalls a favorite dream…_

_A dream that brought you so close to me." _

You step quietly into the room, and Barnes is sitting on the very edge of the couch, his back to the hallway. He's leaning forward, head tilted slightly to one side, propped up by his good arm braced against his knee.

"_I know each word because I've heard that song before._

_The lyrics said 'Forever more.'_

_Forever more's a memory,_

_Please have them play it again,_

_And I'll remember just when…_

_I've heard that lovely song before."_

"The woman singing," you begin, stepping further into the room. He turns around in a flash, eyes startled and wide at your sudden appearance. "Who is she?"

"Helen Forrest," he says, still staring at you as if you'd just formed out of mist. "Sinatra has a version too, but I like this one better."

"How are you, Barnes?"

He stands up and crosses the room in a few long strides, and you can't help thinking that he looks like some great jungle cat, all sinuous movement and sliding muscle. Dark, and powerful, and _dangerous_.

"Wait," you start, but his mouth is on yours in less than a heartbeat and you scold yourself for melting into it, for letting him linger there, for reciprocating (even the tiniest bit), because this is pretty much the opposite of slowing things down.

He pulls away, pupils blown.

"Sorry," he breathes. "Been thinking about that all week."

You swallow with some difficulty, and start looking at anything in the room other than him.

"It's okay," you tell him, wincing at how lame you sound. "I suppose it might be silly to expect a hand shake at this point."

He retakes his seat on the couch, running his hand through his hair, and slowly exhales.

"You okay?" you ask, dropping your bag on the nearest settee, and sliding into the spot next to him. "You look like you're miles and miles away."

"Feel like I'm going to fall apart at any second," he admits. "Like I'm looking down at this endless abyss and the ground is starting to crumble under my feet."

"Generalized anxiety," you tell him. "Didn't sleep through _all_ of my psychology classes, thankfully, just the really boring ones."

"So there's a name for it," he says, glancing at you from the corners of his eyes. "Is there a cure?"

"Medication in the most extreme cases, but therapy is preferred. Usually, you're feeling anxious over something that's out of your control—that's part of what creates the feeling of panic in the first place—and the fear is probably irrational. You need to talk to your psychologist about it, namely about what sets it off, and then work _through_ it."

"I hate that woman," he says. "She looks at me like I'm some kind of animal. A _caged_ animal, muzzled and leashed, but still an animal."

"Well I don't think your hundred yard stare helps very much," you tell him, motioning for him to turn his back to you. He complies immediately, still looking a bit lost.

"I don't have anything to say to her," he insists. "And she doesn't have anything to say to me. She has no idea what to _make_ of me."

You sit up and press both your thumbs against the top of his spinal column, pushing small circles against the tension that has settled there. He grunts in pain, but allows you to continue.

"You're something of a puzzle, Barnes," you tell him. "Not quite the same man who served in the Army, certainly not The Winter Soldier, and I don't think you've figured out who you want to be now that you can make that choice."

He shrugs, turning his head slightly so he can see you.

"What do you want me to be?"

"Not what, never _what._ You're a person, not a thing," you chide, pushing hard against a solid knot in the space between his shoulder blades. "And I want you to be whomever you wish to be, whoever you feel most comfortable being."

"Could you love that person?" he asks.

"Barnes…" You drop your hands from his back and bring them around his waist, hugging him tightly. He covers your hands with his own and you both sit there like that for a long time, until you feel him start to relax.

"You already have my friendship," you tell him, "so you already have my love."

"That's not what I mean," he says.

"We talked about this," you remind him. "You have to give this time; you have to give _yourself_ time."

"I keep waiting to wake up in a cell," he tells you. "Or in the middle of another assignment, dropped off by handlers in some shitty corner of the world, handed a folder with some poor bastard's picture in it. Someone else I have to kill."

"That part of your life is over, James," you tell him, breaking the embrace and resuming your earlier ministrations. "And if we have to eliminate every single Hydra agent still breathing to convince you, then that's what we'll do."

He doesn't say anything in response, but turns his head away from you again, facing forward.

"Don't shut me out," you say, squeezing his shoulders and giving him a slight shake for good measure. "I'm not saying _never_."

"I know," he sighs, arching his back as you continue to knead out the stress that has accumulated there. "And I know I'm being kind of pathetic about it, but you're like a song stuck in my head. I can't seem to get you out, and to be honest, I don't really want to."

"Well, I was actually _in_ your head, if you recall, so that might have something to do with it. We didn't exactly have a whole lot of experience doing what we did, Ana and I."

"I know what a false memory or planted thought feels like," he says. "This is all me. I just don't remember ever acting like this about a woman before. All of it seems more like something out of Steve's playbook. He was the moony, awkward one."

You laugh against the back of his neck, ruffling his hair a bit.

"And you were sodding Cassanova, is that it? All slicked-back hair and charm?"

"Maybe," he laughs, reaching up to hold on to one of your arms. "I guess I grew up a little over the last 70 years, despite myself."

The riotous music that had served as the background noise for your conversation begins to skip, the record needing to be reset or turned over. You slide out from behind Barnes and go to move the needle back to the starting point.

"You know how to use one of those?" Barnes asks, watching you from the couch.

"Mum had one—a tired old thing-but it was all Dad would spring for, the miser," you explain.

A new song starts to play, the orchestra starting a slower, more melancholy tune.

"_Time waits for no one,_

_It passes you by._

_It rolls on forever, _

_Like clouds in the sky…"_

You sway a little, eyes closed and letting the song take you back to when it was new, when young men in fresh-pressed uniforms swallowed mouthfuls of whiskey to kill their nerves so they could ask the prettiest girl in the room to dance.

"_Time waits for no one,_

_Goes on endlessly._

_It's just like a river,_

_Flowing out to the sea…"_

And then Barnes is turning you around to face him, and with only one arm, guides you through the proper steps, leaning his head against yours.

"We shouldn't—" you start, trying to smash the small thrill traveling up through your stomach, causing your chest to tighten and your breath to hitch.

"Shhh," he says. "Just dance with me."

So you do, long into the night, until you convince him you both need some sleep, and so you join him in his room, in his bed, where he holds you and has no nightmares.

-To Be Continued-


	8. Chapter 8

_The End of the Line_

The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Reader

Part III

Ch. 2

* * *

><p>"Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet."<p>

-Plato

* * *

><p>Awareness returns slowly the next morning. Before remembering precisely where you are, you stretch languidly, from toes to fingertips, then snuggle down back beneath the blanket.<p>

"Your ears twitch when you're dreaming."

_Shit_.

"How long have you been watching me sleep, Barnes?" you ask.

"One hour, 53 minutes," he responds without hesitation.

You groan and pinch the ends of your ears (which have lengthened in the night, the traitors) and force them back to their normal shape. In one smooth movement, you roll off the bed and onto your feet, scowling at the cold shock of the bare floor.

"You're upset," he says, almost to himself. "I upset you?"

"No," you assure him, glancing back over your shoulder. He's sitting up against the headboard, his good arm across his chest, hand splayed over the empty socket. "Do you like it when you're not in control of what your body is doing?"

He shakes his head.

"Well that's what those ear twitches are for me. Sometimes, my body just _does_ things because the change increases my odds of survival."

"Like being able to hear better," he observes. "Seems like a useful skill."

"Yes, well, I'd like to be able to sleep in a place that isn't mine without turning into some predatory _thing_ waiting to be attacked."

"Yeah," he says, looking at the space where his other arm should be. "I know what you mean."

You return to the bed, sitting on the edge of the flimsy mattress, and blow a stray strand of hair out of your face.

"Sorry, I'm a bit of a grouch before coffee," you apologize, shooting him what you hope is a reassuring smile.

He's turned inward, hand flexing over the scar tissue where flesh meets metal.

"Barnes?"

"It's today," he says after a moment. "Stark is going to try attaching the arm—_my_ arm—again."

"Yes, later this morning after we get you prepped," you reply. "Steve will be there, and so will I. We'll set you up with pain killers as well, and some anti-anxiety medication just to be safe."

He's still staring blankly at the far wall, and you can't (don't want to) possibly imagine what it is he's seeing that has him looking so damned frightened.

"Hey," you grab his fidgeting fingers in your own and pull them away from the socket. "Talk to me. That's why I'm here."

He nods and seems to come back to himself a bit.

"Just remembering things. Flashes. I remember them taking away what was left of my arm. With a saw. One of those electric ones," he says with a shiver. "No morphine. Nothing between me and what was happening."

Your heart breaks a little more at the admission and once again your anger toward the people responsible is stoked into an inferno. You really need to talk to Rogers about getting a move-on. Fury and Hill must have a list of Hydra nests that need fumigating by now.

"When Zola showed up, I thought the mission must have failed. That's why we were hitting the train in the first place… but I think it was later, _much_ later. Maybe weeks or months."

"People can survive traumatic amputations for a while if blood loss and infection are controlled," you tell him, hating yourself for the knowledge you possess. "And whatever variation of the serum Zola tested on you probably helped you endure as well. It's certainly the only explanation for how you survived the fall from the train."

"The things they made me do…" he says, and for the first time since Queens, you see real anger in his face.

"To be honest, it's what they did _to_ you that I find most onerous," you admit quietly, brushing your thumb over the hand you're still holding. "They made you a slave, Barnes. No human being has the right to do that to another."

He's gone quiet again, studying your smaller hand over his own.

"What I saw when we got you to the safe house," you continue, hoping you're not steering the conversation the wrong way. "When I was in the vault with you, during the mind wipe."

He finally looks at you and nods, and you note how his breathing changes slightly, the small twitch in his good arm that tells you he most certainly remembers.

"I would give _anything_ to make that go away. To have known what was happening; to put a stop to it. I know Rogers feels the same."

"I remember being afraid," he says. "When Pierce gave the order and I _knew_ what was coming. I tried to hold on to the memory—the man on the bridge—but it was burned away. Everything after that was The Mission and only The Mission. When Steve tried to get through to me, my first clear thought was: 'If I remember him, they'll hurt me again. They'll bring the blue fire back and I'll be _gone_."

You squeeze his hand.

"But that's the important bit, Barnes. You were already remembering. They thought they had you good and muzzled, that they had a system, but you broke the conditioning. All of Hydra's tech and resources, all the brainpower behind the program, and _you still broke through_. I'm not sure anyone else, not even Captain America himself, could have done such a thing."

"Always in my corner," he says, a shadow of a smile ghosting across his lips.

"Always," you tell him. "With pom-poms and a silly skirt if need be."

He laughs and pulls you toward him, either roused from his spell of melancholy or doing a really good job of faking it. You end up with your head pillowed on his chest, fingers still intertwined with his.

"I'd pay good money to see you in a skirt," he teases.

"Oh yeah? How much?"

"A whole quarter, doll," he says.

"I think someone needs to bring you up to speed with current inflation rates," you drawl, snickering softly.

"This is nice," he says after a long stretch of comfortable silence. "Never thought I'd be content to just lay in a bed with a pretty girl, hand kept to myself."

"Could be nicer," you observe, feigning a casual air. "You could have kept your hand to _my_ self."

He chokes a little and then you're both laughing, interrupted too soon by a knock at the door.

"Buck?" It's Rogers. "Everyone, um… decent in there?"

"Grab a shower," you whisper to Barnes. "I'll fix breakfast for the three of us. And coffee."

He nods, a little of the mirth that had been in his eyes a moment ago having dimmed.

"Bucky?"

"We're fine, punk!" he finally shouts back at the door. "Give a fella a second, jeez."

"These 1940s colloquialisms are adorable, by the way," you tell Barnes with a wink.

He shakes his head, still smirking a bit, and disappears into the bathroom.

"You handle Captain Prissy Pants," he says. "I'll meet you outside in 10."

"Barnes…" you chide. "Enjoy the bloody shower. Take a half hour, at the least."

"Nag, nag, nag," he mock-grouses, and gently closes the bathroom door.

Barefoot, and clothed only in a pair of sweats and a sports bra, you pad to the door and pull it open with all the drama you can imbue into the action. You hope you look properly disheveled, if only to make Rogers blush. Can't blame a girl for finding enjoyment in possessing the upper hand, as it were.

"Oh God," he says, stumbling backward, one hand flying up to cover his eyes. "I asked if everyone was decent!"

"Oh please," you swat at him. "Like the man currently dating Natasha Romanoff ought to be lecturing anyone about _decency_."

He turns a shade of red you didn't think possible, mouth hanging open in sheer terror and mortification.

"She's a world class spy, so I'm not surprised that she can be quiet," you prod, deciding to take this perhaps a bit further than Rogers deserves. "But _you_. Tales have been told. The walls aren't soundproof."

"But Stark said that they were," he answers immediately, before realizing his mistake.

You nearly collapse in a fit of laughter, and Steve joins you a moment later.

"All right, all right. You got me. I'm such a goon. Nat's gonna be so pissed," he says, shoving you toward your room to change.

"Still on her mission?" you ask over your shoulder.

He nods. "It's not going well. She says she keeps hearing chatter about a new mercenary going by the name 'Crossbones,' but we're not getting any hits from the old S.H.I.E.L.D. files and JARVIS isn't picking up anything we don't already know. Could be something, could be smoke. She's working to find out more."

"Wish I could have gotten a better look at him," you sigh, hesitating outside your door. "He was a marksman, to be sure. But he was overconfident. His aim was off when I didn't play by the rules he'd set up. He wasn't prepared for anyone to go running toward his position, which was stupid, considering the target, the individuals the target was with, and their combined propensity for getting themselves into trouble."

"Says the woman who just admitted running _toward_ the sniper."

"That's different," you insist, opening the door.

"Why?" he asks.

"Reasons," you respond rather snottily, and then slip into your room for a quick shower and a change of clothes.

Precisely 30 minutes later, Barnes enters the kitchen where you've been doing your best to educate Rogers on how to _not_ set fire to the entire floor. He's a quick study, and is flipping pancakes on the shallow pan you've given him custodianship of while you reduce a carton of raspberries, some sugar, and water in another pan to satisfy everyone's sweet tooth. A pot of coffee is percolating merrily as well, and you can already feel your brain starting to wake up fully from the aroma alone.

"Morning Buck," Steve says, carefully lifting another batch of finished pancakes onto the plate you set aside for him.

"Steve," Barnes nods, his hair still damp from the shower.

"Get some sleep last night?" Rogers asks, and you brace for a sarcastic, or worse yet, a _suggestive_, answer.

"Yeah," he responds simply. "Five hours. Most I've gotten in a single stretch, I think."

Steve smiles at his friend and passes him a plate.

"She made eggs, too," he says. "Omelets."

"Lots of omelets. And a pig's worth of bacon. You two eat enough to warrant your own grocery budget," you add. "I don't think I've ever seen a refrigerator that big, and that's just for this floor."

"Tony doesn't scrimp," Steve says, moving around to the other side of the counter to take a seat next to Barnes. "And I think he likes this, having everyone under one roof. Much has he complains and claims to covet his privacy, I get the feeling he prefers all the commotion and company."

"He collects superheroes and PhDs like other men collect dirty magazines," you snort. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was up to something, like filling the void left behind by a recently defunct government agency that once did the _exact same thing_."

"He's not trying to step into Fury's shoes," Steve says, already shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth. "But there is a need for an organization of some kind to do what S.H.I.E.L.D. set out to do. Before Hydra tainted everything."

You shrug and lift the lid off of an enormous wok filled with sliced potatoes, onions, and peppers, all sizzling away in oil as they crisp.

"That smells amazing," Barnes pipes up, staring intently at the pan.

"Just homefries," you tell him. "You can find them in almost any diner from here to Montauk. Ana can never get enough."

"Gimme," he says, eyes still locked on the pan.

"I second that," Steve adds. "There are two things you cannot withhold from Brooklyn boys: Spaghetti and potatoes."

"What grand cultural inheritances," you snicker, removing the pan from the heat and depositing the contents into an absurdly large bowl. You pass it over to the island, along with more pancakes, and the raspberry syrup you made from scratch.

"I think I might have ended up a foot taller if we'd grown up eating like this," Steve says, spooning a healthy portion of the homefries onto his plate. "Ma did her best, but you kids don't know how good you've got it. I almost had a fit the first time I saw a supermarket."

"Food for miles," Barnes agrees, nodding as he eats. "I remember what a big deal it was to get a turkey _and_ a ham for Christmas."

You just smile and lean back against the work counter, using your fork to cut sections away from the pancakes, dipping the pieces in the rich, almost too-sweet sauce, and enjoying the moment as the two friends reminisce.

"You remember that time Donnie whats-his-name started harassing you on the way home from DeMarco's?" Barnes asks, already laughing quietly around his fork.

"Ma sent me to pick up ground beef for her meatballs," Steve says, nodding. "That little jerk threw snowballs at my head for blocks."

"He had good aim," Barnes adds, nodding solemnly. "Not as good as mine though."

They carry on like that for about an hour, until JARVIS interrupts with a notification that Barnes is due on Tony's lab.

"Dr. Banner is also waiting," the A.I. informs everyone. "To provide whatever medical assistance is necessary."

"I thought-?" Barnes starts, looking at you with a hint of anxiety in his voice.

"I'll still be there, but I haven't got my medical license yet, remember? I'll follow Banner's lead, but _you_ are my primary concern. You need to talk to me as we go so we can keep everyone safe."

He nods slowly and Rogers gives him a brotherly pat on the back.

"You'll be fine, Buck. We're not going to do anything without explaining it to you first and if you want Stark to stop, you just say so. There's no rush."

Again, he nods.

It's a short trip up to Stark's lab, a place you haven't been able to explore yet, and are a bit surprised to find it set up more like a rich man's garage than what you've become accustomed to at home (Hank would _never_ allow such loud music to be playing while he works).

Barnes holds your hand the entire time, and though you don't have to drag him along, you get the feeling that he would be frozen to the spot if not for the steady reassurance of your fingers woven through his.

Stark pops his head through the open door to the lab and waves you all through.

"C'mon, kids, we've got a lot to cover before we really get started," he says, plopping down on a rolling stool and sliding over to sit in the center of a hovering 3D display. "Daddy's been busy."

Banner is hiding behind a bank of computers and medical equipment, a deferential wave the only sign he's even participating in the procedure. For someone with such an infamous reputation, he seems about as dangerous as a sleepy kitten.

"I'm going to go get acquainted with Dr. Banner," you tell Barnes. "I want to go over his plan and discuss any concerns he has. You listen to whatever Stark has to say about your arm. I'm sure he's made some modifications."

"Uh, try 57," Stark corrects, throwing up a diagram of the original Hydra-era arm and blowing it up and out to show the internal mechanics. "Despite being indefensible _assholes_," he says, "This was a very impressive piece of equipment."

You give Barnes a reassuring squeeze of your fingers and then leave him with Rogers and Stark to go over all of the upgrades and changes made to the prosthetic. You're loathe to leave him when he so clearly needs someone (or something) to hold on to, but it's vitally important that you understand Banner's plan of action if you're going to be of any help medically.

"Uh, hi," the Hulk's alter-ego says, eyes crinkled at the corners behind thin-framed glasses. "Tony tells me you have a background in medicine?"

"Four years at Johns Hopkins," you admit, and not without some well-earned pride. "But I deferred my residency internship to take on a teaching position at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. It's my _alma mater_, and they needed the position filled. Felt like I owed them."

"Impressive," he says. "What was your area of interest?"

"Emergency medicine, and if I showed a talent for it I thought trauma surgery might be a good fit. But who knows, I might have ended up in the NICU."

He shivers. "Babies."

"I know. I raised my sister, and she was a pretty healthy infant. Still threw up too much for my liking, and if I never have to change another dirty diaper, it'll be too soon. She's a teenager now, and I still have nightmares."

He offers a genuine smile, and having established that you have the credentials to justify your being involved in Barnes' procedure, as well as sharing a professional language with him, he relaxes a bit and starts going over his plan for the procedure.

"He has a fast metabolism, not too unlike mine or Captain Rogers'," he tells you. "Maybe a little faster than mine, a little slower than Steve's. But close enough to both that a normal dose of Demerol based on body weight or age won't do the trick."

"Agreed," you tell him. "Do we have a formula for figuring out the appropriate dosage?"

He shows you a notepad with several lines of numbers scribbled across the page. You follow the simple equation and nod.

"That should work, though I'd feel better if we had a few smaller doses prepared in case he processes the opioids faster than we anticipate."

"I thought the same thing," he says, and you both begin preparing several additional syringes with more modest payloads, capping each one and placing it carefully on the stainless steel tray Banner has already brought out.

"It was a good thing you did," Banner says, popping the cap down on the last of the back-ups. "Going after Barnes. Brave, too, considering who he is. Was."

"Captain America was begging for my particular assistance," you tell him. "How could I say 'no' and still show my face in public?"

He smiles a little, as if hesitant to fully let his guard down.

"Still, when people assume you're a monster, you don't expect to be the guy getting rescued, even when you really need it. A lifeline like that…" he shakes his head. "You have no idea how much that means to someone like him."

"He has more friends than he knows," you say. "So do you, as evidenced by your gainful employment at Stark Industries and card-carrying Avenger status."

"Yeah," he replies, cheeks reddening a bit as he ducks down. "I think I found the one group of people strange enough that even the _Other Guy_ doesn't scare them away."

"You haven't met my colleagues," you drawl. "But I get what you mean. It's nice to have a place to call home."

"Very true," he answers. You make a mental note to mention Banner to Hank the next time he's got you running time trials down in his lab. You have a feeling the two will get along famously.

"He should have something for anxiety," you tell Banner. "Last time, he was overwhelmed and got lost in a flashback. Might be wise to put a bit of a cushion between him and his PTSD."

"Right, right," Banner says, turning around to the long row of locked cabinets behind you both. "Tony keeps an impressive pharmacy, and I brought up whatever I could salvage from the medical wing."

He rummages through the rows of neatly labeled bottles, pulling a few and leaving others.

"We have Xanax, Klonopin, Valium, and Ativan. There are some anti-depressants that can be used interchangeably, with the added bonus of smaller risk of dependency: Prozac, Zoloft, Paxil, Lexapro, and Celexa. I ordered Buspirone, but I'm not sure we want to sedate him."

"No, probably not," you say, shaking your head. "It's when he's asleep or unconscious that all the memories come back the hardest. He has an easier time working through them when he's awake."

"What's your professional preference?" he asks, studying each bottle in turn.

"Let's go with the Klonopin. I think a Benzodiazepine is his best option. It'll kick in faster and I don't think he's at risk of abusing them in the future. We want to blunt the edges of his anxiety, not turn him into a drooling zombie."

"Good choice," he says. "Obviously I'd rather he didn't need medication at all, but he's doing remarkably well considering what he went through. I've seen the bottom of that hole, and it's not pretty."

For the first time, you really consider what it must be like to be Bruce Banner. Not being able to keep your own body's alterations under control all of the time is frustrating enough, and you're mostly left to deal with minor things like ocular adjustments or sensory perception improvements. Banner becomes a totally different _being _(something you can only do by consciously choosing to), and while the core of The Hulk may be the mild-mannered doctor, everything wrapped around that core is very clearly anything but _mild_ or _mannered_.

"What is it about having a tortured soul that turns so many of us into humanity's champions?" you ask with a smile.

Banner returns the expression and shrugs. "What else are we going to do with ourselves?"

"Eat ice cream out of the carton and watch 'Marely and Me,'" you laugh.

"Goddamn 'Marely and Me,'" he says, shaking his head. "Ms. Potts had a movie night a few months ago and made us watch it."

"Cried like a baby?" you ask, swallowing your laughter.

"It was cathartic," he says, laughing at himself.

"Hey, if you two are done flirting over jabby things and heavy narcotics, could you get over here? We'd like to get started," Tony calls, and you barely suppress the biting retort ready to come screaming past your lips. The man is insufferable.

Barnes is staring at Banner with barely contained hatred, and you roll your eyes at him.

"He's joking, Barnes. Relax."

"Good," he spits out and waits for you to join him next to the chair that's been set up for him. You're relieved to find it does not resemble the one from the vault aside from the most basic similarities (in that they're both _chairs_), and nothing more.

You pass Barnes two Klonopin tablets along with a glass of water to swallow them down. He complies, but only after you explain what they are and do.

Banner hands you a surgical mask and you briefly wonder if you should scrub up, but then remember that he's not actually being operated on (in the classical sense), and that the major risks are a negative psychological reaction, pain, and contamination of the prosthetic with foreign debris.

"We're going to start your I.V.," you tell Barnes, motioning for him to turn his arm over for the needle. "It should block any discomfort, but if you feel _anything_, I need you to tell me right away. We have additional medication that can help, and Stark will stop what he's doing until you're comfortable again, okay?"

He nods and you wait for his breath rate to return to something approaching normal before swabbing the skin of his forearm with disinfectant and carefully sliding the IV line in.

"Perfect," you tell him. "This should kick in soon, we'll do a check in about 30 minutes. It's not going to knock you out, but your head might feel a bit fuzzy."

As you wait, Rogers keeps everyone entertained (and distracted) with another tale of his and Barnes' escapades as two scrappy youths in 1920s Brooklyn, even managing to coax a smile out of his friend in the process.

"Had to keep an eye on you, punk," Barnes slurs, eyelids drooping slightly. "Couldn't stand that sad look your Ma would get when you limped home all bloody."

"Just let me return the favor one day," Steve says, taking a seat on the edge of one of Stark's worktables.

"Already did," Barnes continues. "You got me out. You and the dame."

You run a quick check on Barnes' pain reactions, pricking the skin around his left arm with a sterile needle.

"Anything?" you ask, and he shakes his head in response, staring at you with glassy eyes.

"Hi, doll," he says. "You gonna take care of me?"

"Of course, you silly man," you tell him. "Until you're well enough to take care of yourself."

He closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

"I'm ready," he says, sounding more like himself.

"Finally," Stark says. "Pep might get googly-eyed over this star-crossed lovers schtick, but I find it all pretty cliché."

"You're a real prince, you know that?" you retort, scowling behind the mask.

"No, I'm a _mechanic_," he corrects. "And a genius."

"And a prat," you add.

"Sorry," he says. "I only speak English."

This time, you can't help laughing, because you think you might have finally come to understand Stark's personality and his sense of humor.

"Let's get on with it," you tell him a moment later, looking down at Barnes who still has his eyes closed. "This isn't exactly a picnic for him."

"I know," Tony says, but he continues to hesitate. "And I know I should hate him, considering what he did, but Pepper has been good enough to remind me which parties actually deserve that particular emotion. It's not him."

Barnes opens his eyes, brow furrowed for a moment.

"Your parents?" he says. "Howard and Maria Stark. I… I—"

"Not you," Tony says with a shake of his head. "Not really. For what it's worth, I forgive you. We'll get the people responsible, Barnes. Soon as you're ready, we'll find them and they'll pay for what they did. To all of us."

At that moment, you could _kiss_ Stark, but instead settle for a dip of your head in acknowledgement of the gesture he's just made. It couldn't have been an easy one, and if you're putting all the pieces together in the way you think they fit, Tony _does_ have every reason to resent the former Hydra assassin. Even if it isn't fair, or rational, it would be understandable.

Maybe he's not as intolerable as you first thought.

"Okay!" Stark says, clapping his hands together. "Let's get this started. JARVIS, soundtrack please. Hope you guys have good taste in music."

A seemingly endless playlist of AC/DC tracks begins, and while you initially think the sheer volume of the music may disturb Barnes, he doesn't seem to be bothered by it. You even catch the fingers on his good hand tapping on the armrest of his chair in time to the music.

Tony gets to work, explaining what sounds like technical gibberish to you as he begins reattaching all of the synaptic lines from the arm to Barnes' shoulder (and brain). The word "servos" and "sensors" come up a lot, and though he seems a bit out of it, Barnes has almost encyclopedic knowledge about the arm when prodded with the right questions.

About 45 minutes in, he starts to sweat, and you wave Tony off for a moment while you check his pain levels.

"Barnes? Open your eyes," you tell him. He does, and you notice that his reactions aren't nearly as sluggish as they had been at the beginning of the procedure. The Demerol most be wearing off.

"Scale of one to ten?" you ask him.

"Eight," he says. "Approaching nine."

"Should have said something," you scold him.

"I don't—" he begins, then swallows. "I wasn't _supposed to_ mention it. If I was functional, that was enough."

"Well, you don't work for those animals anymore," you tell him, taking the small syringe passed to you by Banner. "I'll beat it into you if I have to: You need to tell us if you're hurt."

"Weakness is unacceptable," he argues. "I'm not weak."

"No, but you're human," you tell him, looking up at Rogers and seeing the same rage behind his eyes as there is in your own.

"Okay," he breathes, and then with more effort than you care to think about, "I hurt."

"Fucking Hydra," Tony swears, just before excusing himself and storming out of the lab to take a breather.

"It's all right," you reassure Barnes, whose eyes follow Tony as he leaves. "He's not upset with you, just with the people who did this. I'm going to give you an injection now; tell me if it takes some of the pain away."

He nods and returns his gaze to you. You slip the syringe into the IV port and push the contents through.

"Deep breaths," you tell him. "Stay here with us."

"With you," he says, and all you can do is nod.

A few minutes tick by and some of the tension leaves his face.

"Better?"

"Yeah," he says. "Stark can come back. I'm okay."

"Scale?"

"Seven. But I can handle seven."

You table that discussion for later, swallowing the argument that he should be at _zero_, ideally, but deciding now is not the time, and the sooner this is over with, the better.

"Stark?" Rogers calls.

"Here," the billionaire replies, stalking back into the room. He offers no apology or explanation and just gets back to work after confirming with Barnes that it's okay to do so.

Twenty minutes later, the arm is fully seated and connected, and Barnes runs through some basic movements to make sure everything is lined up properly.

"It's lighter than I remember," he says, clenching and unclenching his fist. "The movements are smoother, too. I don't have to think so hard about them."

"Yes, yes, and of course not. This isn't some half-assed operation I'm running here," Tony says, tossing Barnes a rubber ball, which he catches with ease and appropriate delicacy (considering how strong the arm can be).

"You should have more tactile sensitivity too. Give me a couple weeks, and I'll work up a sleeve for the whole thing. We can have it project a hologram of your real arm over the metal, in the event you need to keep a low profile."

"That'll be useful," Barnes says, nodding.

"I'll send the User Manual to your room later," Tony adds with a smarmy grin. "I'd like to be able to apply some of the tech to prosthetics for people of the non-super soldier variety, but I don't think Joe Average could handle the torque or weight, no matter how much I trim things down. Maybe if we switched to bio-plastics instead…"

And with that, he's done with the lot of you, turning toward another display and firing off a rapid series of specs to JARVIS, who begins running numbers and simulations to explore Tony's theories about next-gen prosthetics.

"Has anyone ever told him he probably has some form of ADHD?" you ask Banner, who only laughs behind you, quietly cleaning up the mess made throughout the procedure.

"Pretty sure he's undiagnosed," he says.

You both work to remove Barnes' IV, though you push one more reduced dose of pain killers into his system to get him through the next few hours as his body adjusts to his new arm.

"How are we doing?" you ask him, slipping the needle from his forearm and pressing a piece of gauze over the bubble of blood that appears. It'll probably be healed over without a trace within the hour, but you're not willing to shrug away the little things if you don't have to.

"Good," he says, staring at his arm as he turns it over. "Sore, but good. Whole."

You smile and motion that he can stand up when he's ready.

"He's right about the sensitivity," he says. "With the other arm, the old one, I could tell when I was touching things through pressure, but it wasn't the same as _feeling_ them."

He reaches over and wraps a piece of your hair around a single metal finger and his eyes widen slightly.

"I can feel this, like I can with my other hand. It's not exactly the same, but it's close enough."

"Happy for you," you tell him, as his metal hand drifts down to trace along your cheek and jaw.

He smiles, and then looks over at Steve.

"I want a rematch," he says. "We never got to finish that fight."

"The one where you broke my face?" Steve asks, shaking his head.

"Same one."

"When Dr. Banner and your gal says you can," Steve tells him. "Though there's a condition."

"What's that, punk?" Barnes asks, canting his head to the side.

"I get to use my shield."

"Deal," he says, getting to his feet. He drapes his flesh-and-blood arm over your shoulder—though you strongly suspect he doesn't need your help staying balanced anymore—and you lead him out of the lab.

"Let's get you to a couch to recover, and I'll work on lunch. Dr. Banner?"

"Hmm?" he asks, looking up from whatever menial task he's resigned himself to now that he's not needed.

"You'll join us, won't you?"

"She's a damn good cook," Barnes says, and you know it's his way of apologizing for getting territorial earlier.

"Sure," Banner says with a shrug. "Soon as I clean up here, I'll head down."

"You're not a vegetarian are you?" you ask, wrinkling your nose.

"No, not even remotely," he answers a bit sheepishly. "I tried for a few months when I lived in India, but it never took."

"Brilliant," you tell him, continuing out of the lab. "I'll make _Croque Madame_. I spotted a nice Gruyere in the fridge this morning. It'll be perfect."

"Didn't think you modern dames liked to cook anymore," Barnes teases as you head to the elevator.

"Well wouldn't you know, I can also do laundry, sew, iron your suits, _and_ impress the boss at the company picnic so you get the big promotion!" you tease right back, sticking out your tongue at him.

His eyes lock on to your mouth and you can see the gears turning in his head.

"Not now," you tell him with a wink. "Later, when we have the floor to ourselves again."

"Why did we invite everyone for lunch?" he asks.

"Because it's polite, Barnes," you tell him, poking him in the ribs. "And you need to rest for a bit anyway."

He flexes the metal arm, once again entranced by the movement.

"So what comes next?" you ask, after stepping into the elevator.

"Hydra," Steve says, his voice going hard. "I don't want to waste any more time hammering out details, much as I like to have a plan."

"Find them, _kill_ them. Repeat," Barnes says, dropping his arm from your shoulder and holding it out to Rogers.

Both men shake on it, as solid a promise as can exist between soldiers and friends.

"Sounds like a good plan," you agree.

"You still in?" Rogers asks, head angled slightly to the side.

"Do you really need to ask?"

"No," the Captain answers, shaking his head. "Definitely not."

"Normally I'd object to a lady wading into this," Barnes says, curling his metal fingers under your chin. "But you ain't no lady."

"Requisite anatomy aside," you tell him, mischief sparking in your eyes, "_Not even a little bit_."

-To Be Continued-


	9. Chapter 9

_The End of the Line_

The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Reader

Part III

Ch. 3

* * *

><p>Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet."<p>

-Plato

* * *

><p>Lunch goes off without a hitch, and you can't keep the silly smile off your face as Barnes goes back for thirds and then fourths. Shortly after polishing off his last sandwich, you notice he's cradling his metal arm, favoring it a bit as everyone moves into the living area to digest and unwind.<p>

"Level?" you ask him, settling next to him on one of the white leather couches.

He grimaces and looks at you from the corner of his eyes. "I'm okay, doll."

"You must be a terrible poker player, Barnes," you snark, glancing at Rogers for confirmation.

"No one else I'd rather play against," Steve says. "_If_ I were a betting man, that is."

"Snitch," Barnes grumbles, then looks you square in the face. "It's getting bad. Enough that I can't ignore it."

Banner produces a case of syringes from one of his coat pockets and passes it to you.

"I thought you might want these handy," he says with a shrug. "If you need more, just let me know."

"Thanks," you and Barnes both say simultaneously.

"Any chance we can cancel therapy for today?" Barnes asks Steve as you prepare one of the syringes.

"If you don't think you can get through a session, it's not a problem, Buck," Steve says. "But Stapleton holds the keys to the kingdom. I know you want to get back out into the world, but it's not going to happen until she gives you the green light."

Barnes sighs and sinks a little into the couch.

"Arm," you prod, kneeling next to him on the couch. You curse yourself for removing the IV so soon. This would be easier with an established port, and you know how much he hates needles.

Resigned, Barnes stretches his good arm out and turns his forearm over. He makes a fist, causing the major veins near the crook of his elbow to stand out in sharp relief. Carefully, you slip the thin piece of metal under his skin, feeling a moment of resistance as it meets the vein, then a tiny pop as it passes through. Barnes exhales and unclenches his fist.

"Sorry," you murmur, slowly injecting the Demerol before pulling the needle back and pressing a tissue grabbed from the box on a nearby sidetable against the brief welling of blood.

"Will you come to the session with the shrink?" Barnes asks, rubbing his shoulder where metal meets flesh now that his good arm is freed from your grip.

"I don't think I should be in the room, Barnes," you tell him. "But I can wait for you outside. If you need a break, I can step in while the doctor steps out, until you're ready to continue. Or ready to call it a day."

He looks to Steve, and once again you're struck by how young they both are, and by how much they rely on each other.

"She's right, Bucky. You have to try to open up to the Doc. I know it's hard; I've talked to my fair share of them. Still do, when necessary."

"Really?" Barnes asks, genuinely surprised.

"Of course. There was a lot of new information being thrown at me and I didn't know how to process all of it. I woke up, and for me only a few days had passed since _you_ died. Or when I thought you died. Jesus, Buck. I thought _I_ died. I made peace with that when I made the decision to crash the plane."

The Captain shakes his head.

"There's no way to deal with this on your own. Sam is kind of an expert in this sort of thing, and he says therapy is vital to recovery. It's not like it was when we served. You don't have to swallow the nightmares down and pretend like everything's okay. You don't have to _hide_. And all the talking… it does help. It's not a cure, or a complete fix. But even a little give is enough."

"She doesn't understand," Barnes argues. "No one can understand…"

"It's not about her understanding," Banner interjects, finally piping up from where he's hovering near the long stretch of windows overlooking the city. "It's about having a neutral party listen to your thought process, deconstruct it, and pick out all the bits that are self-indulgent, or self-defeating, manipulative, deceptive, and so on. She's there to shine a hard light on all the places you don't want to look, because you're the only person who can fix them. To do that, you have to know that they're there."

"How many PhDs do you have exactly?" you ask, only half-joking.

Banner shakes his head. "Not that kind, but Tony pretends that I do, no matter how often I tell him otherwise."

Barnes leans his head back against the couch and squeezes his eyes shut.

"I don't think I can do this," he admits. "There's too much ground to cover."

"Try," you tell him, catching his eyes as they crack open. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"I spend hours every week recounting and reliving the nightmare that is my life," he grinds out, anger sharpening his voice and lowering the timbre to something approaching a growl.

"_Was_ your life," you correct. "And I know this must seem like we're asking you to reopen a wound, but in order to do that, the wound has to be healed in the first place. Yours are still raw, Barnes. You know that."

His Adam's apple works against the skin of his throat and you know he wants to argue, wants to curse you all and storm out of the room. Maybe go knock the sawdust out of one of Steve's punching bags in the gym, or find some forgotten room to hide in until JARVIS rats him out, or spend hours breaking down, cleaning, and reassembling all of the firearms in Stark's rather impressive collection in the sub-basement firing range (he's still not allowed to actually shoot any of them).

Slowly, you reach forward, across his chest, and slip your fingers between his metal ones, thumb brushing against the cool surface. These bouts of melancholy frighten you more than all of the angry outbursts or panic attacks, because they're tainted with a self-hatred so intense you can almost feel the weight of it in your own head, over your own heart.

He flinches, ever so slightly, and his eyes fly open. There's a brief moment when his metal hand clamps down on yours, a little too hard to be anything but aggressive, but the reaction passes in a fraction of a second, and then his grip relaxes and he looks at you once again.

"You really think this is going to help?" he asks.

"Yes," you answer. "We all do, or we wouldn't be pushing you so hard to keep trying. None of us wants to see you hurting, but—and Dr. Banner can back me up on this—Sometimes you have to allow yourself to be hurt in order to heal. _Really_ heal, Barnes. Not just slap a smile on, and hope your charm will fool everyone into thinking you're okay."

"I don't—"

"You _do_. And it's okay, we understand why, but it's not the same thing as facing this and dealing with it."

"What if I don't get better?" he asks, running his flesh hand through his hair and blowing air out from behind clenched teeth.

"We'll love you anyway," you say with a shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world (because it is).

His hand tightens around yours and he looks between you and Steve, not quite sure if what you're saying is true.

"End of the line, pal," Steve says with a lopsided grin.

"Well, we kind of just met," Banner stammers from the windows.

Barnes coughs out a laugh and then raises your hand to his lips for a quick kiss to your palm.

"Guess I'll keep that appointment," he says, swinging his eyes up to the ceiling. "But I still say the woman is a quack."

"Try one more round, and if you persist in your dislike of her, we'll have Stark's people find and vet another one. You don't have to stick with a doctor you don't like just because she comes highly recommended. There needs to be a rapport."

"English, doll."

"Colonist," you tease. "You need to have an affinity for her, and she for you. You both need to be on the same page."

"Not sure that's in the cards," he says. "But if you and Steve think I need to go, then I'll go."

In little under an hour, you, Rogers, and Barnes are all headed down to the 21st floor where Stark keeps a series of offices ready for temporary consultants. It's here that Barnes meets with his psychologist, and here that he has flatly refused to engage with her at every previous appointment.

Dr. Stapleton is waiting outside her office door, apparently having been alerted to Barnes' approach by JARVIS.

"Sergeant Barnes," she says with a slight inclination of her silvered head. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

He just glares at her, metal fist curled into a solid club hanging at his side.

"Shall we?" She steps to the side and opens the door to the office, waiting for Barnes to enter first.

_Not showing her back_, you note. This one _does_ have experience treating potentially violent and severely damaged soldiers suffering from PTSD and the various effects of traumatic brain injury. You don't doubt for a second that she's never consulted with anyone quite like Bucky Barnes, but you don't pick up on the Evil Queen Bitch vibe that Barnes' behavior had implied.

He hesitates for a moment and then stalks inside.

"I'll join you shortly," Stapleton tells his back. "I'd like to speak with your colleagues first. Then we can start our session."

She pulls the door shut behind him, and you catch a glimpse of Barnes turning around, eyes sad and defeated as he settles into a plush chair at the far end of the room.

Stapleton is a prim figure, and both her clothing and body language indicate a no-nonsense attitude. You guess she probably served in the military herself, in one capacity or another.

"You're the medical student I was told about," Stapleton says, holding out her hand to you. "Agent Hill sent me some of your files."

"Were they terribly interesting?"

"Whetted my appetite," she says. "I've met your mentor before, at a conference over a decade ago. He is a very… _interesting_ man."

You shake her hand, wondering just what the implication in her choice of words entails. Does she know what the Professor is? What _you_ are? Or is she simply referring to the obvious truth that Professor Charles Xavier is a deeply, profoundly fascinating individual, plain and simple?

"What is your relationship to my patient?" she asks, retracting her hand. "I'm not trying to pry, but he's been very tight-lipped about the connections he may have to other people. Any information you can provide might help me gain his trust…"

"We're friends," you tell her, glancing to Steve. "And Rogers is obviously his greatest friend and ally in all of this. He has others here as well. Romanoff, Banner, and even Stark, though perhaps to a lesser extent."

"That's good," she says with a sniff. "I don't think he needs a much bigger support group than that, but if he reaches out to someone, it should be encouraged. Unless the individual in question is _unsavory_."

You shift uneasily from foot to foot, unable to ignore the feeling that this woman is avoiding something.

"We'll keep an eye out for any bad influences," you return. "Don't want him falling in with the wrong crowd."

She narrows her eyes at the attitude, but moves on to the thing you felt she might have been circling this entire time.

"I understand Captain Rogers has digested his file, the one provided by Romanoff. Have you?"

"No," you answer with a brief shake of your head. "But he's shared some of what happened. I'm not sure if what my imagination conjures up to fill in the gaps is worse than the truth, or..."

"The truth is worse," she assures you. "You may be better off not knowing, not unless he wants to tell you. If he does, be prepared to seek support yourselves. These… _people_ went to great lengths to turn a man into a machine."

"He talks to her about it more than anyone else," Steve says, looking down at the floor, and then at the wall. You wonder if he's jealous about this, having been usurped by a stranger as his best friend's psychological confidant. You have no doubt that Rogers desperately wants to save Bucky, but he's so accustomed to sacrificing what _he _wants, that you know he'll swallow whatever resentment may exist in the hopes that it helps his friend find himself.

"Do you know of a particular reason why that is?" Stapleton asks, raising one finely manicured brow.

"No," you admit. "I'm not a soldier, and aside from having had a nasty git for a father, I don't have some dark past that provides a shared life experience."

"You got him out of that house in Brooklyn," Steve says. "We chased him for months, and he burned us at every chance. Me, Sam, and Natasha. But not you. You reached for him, and he reached back."

"He was exhausted, Rogers. I told you weeks ago that he crawled into that pit to die," you remind him, painful as the recollection is for you both.

"There may be something to what the Captain is suggesting," Stapleton observes. "He's accustomed to having a handler, we know that from his file. I don't think you're a replacement in such a specific way, but his brain is wired to seek out a point of reference. One or two people he can look to for instructions, cues on how to behave, directions, orders. A mission."

"I don't give him orders," you sneer. "I hold his hand when he wakes up from one of his nightmares. I make him lunch, try to make him laugh if I can."

"A point of reference," she insists, then slides her gaze to Rogers. "How does he behave when she's gone? I understand she's not a resident of the tower."

Steve looks at you a bit nervously.

"I'm not sure I should discuss this without Bucky being okay with it."

"I know this feels a little like a betrayal, Captain, but I'm only asking because I want to help him. Almost as much as you two."

He sighs, rubs a hand over the top of his head a few times.

"He's bad. Withdrawn. Sometimes he doesn't talk for days, sometimes he can't seem to shut the hell up. When he's chatty, it's all about her," he says, nodding in your direction. "'When is she coming back?' 'Why am I being such a punk over a dame I just met?' 'She makes me laugh.' 'She's not afraid of me.' 'She says I can't hurt her.' 'She yells at me and tells me to stop being such an idiot.'"

He jams his hands in the pockets of his jeans, rolls onto the balls of his feet and then back down.

"He loves her, ma'am. I've known Bucky my whole life and he always had a girl on his arm, from the day his voice broke—maybe a little before that—to the day he shipped out. I've never seen him so wrapped up in anyone before, or so serious about it."

"This is could be _very_ unhealthy," she warns, locking eyes with yours. "You're a smart young woman, _and_ attempting to join the medical profession, surely you know better."

"I can't tell him what to feel or not feel," you argue. "That's Hydra's playground. But we've discussed _this_, whatever it is, and we both know nothing can come of it until he's better. We're not children."

"He is balanced on a precipice," she says. "The knife's edge, as it were. I won't suggest that you leave, not if you and Captain Rogers are the primary people keeping him anchored to reality and who he is, but neither will I let you endanger my patient, and he _is_ my patient, and therefore my responsibility."

You feel like you're 10 years old again, being dressed down by your Gran for misbehaving in school.

"We understand," you offer, looking at Rogers. He nods his agreement but doesn't seem to have anything else to say. The admission he made on behalf of his friend is sticking him like a blade in the gut.

Stapleton provides a curt nod, and then excuses herself, entering her office to start the session with Barnes.

You immediately find an empty seat against a wall and get comfortable, patting the nearest chair for Rogers to join you.

"I really, really don't like this," Steve says, sliding down into the chair with what you can only describe as terminally bad posture. Not very Captain America-like at all.

"She needed to know," you offer. "He hasn't told her a single thing about himself, or us, or his life here, or before. When you first started therapy, what did you talk with your doctor about?"

"That's kind of personal," he says, turning his head a bit to look over at you. "But at first, it was just basic things. What I did that day, what bugged me, what I found interesting, or funny, or just _new_."

"Exactly. It's usually fluff. Your doctor had to get a read on you to figure out an approach. Like doing recon before starting a mission."

He nods. "Makes sense."

"And Barnes isn't giving up any information. No tracks, no tells, no paper trail for Stapleton to follow. I told you it didn't seem like she had a game plan, and she _doesn't_. She can't. All she has is that bloody horror show of a file, and now what you and I have told her."

You both fall silent, caught up in your respective thoughts, and you force yourself to slip into a semi-meditative state, one that Logan finally managed to teach you after months of struggling to _shut down_ the internal monologue of angry, bitter resentment that seemed to be the constant background music of your life.

After hours of trying to get you to be _still_, he'd gotten frustrated and smacked you upside the back of the head.

_Stop squirmin'_, he told you. _Gotta bank that fire before you burn yourself out, kid._

_Not a kid_, you'd snapped, flipping him the bird. _And you and your new age hippy bullshit can go get bent._

Another smack upside the head. _Ladies shouldn't swear so much. Now try to goddamn sit still for five fucking minutes._

Eventually, you'd figured it out and told the nasty voice in your head to go sod off and bother someone else. You'd rediscovered the joy of silence and stillness. Of not worrying about what happened hours ago, or what might happen hours from now. To just exist in the moment as it happened. The other shoe might have dropped a thousand times as your mind drifted, but you had stopped caring if it did.

It was a hell of a revelation.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Simple. All that there needed to be for whatever length of time you spent cross-legged on the lawn, opposite The Wolverine, as butterflies and birds flitted past you both, because yes, it was that peaceful, and Xavier's was that much of a refuge for all the mutant misfits of the world. Even ones as beaten down and broken as the sour Canadian and his foul-mouthed, shapeshifter student.

"You look like a kid when you do that," Steve murmurs and you open one eye in question at the comment.

"Not that it looks immature, that's not what I meant. I mean… you look really young."

"Well I'm not 90 years old, Rogers, so I'm not sure what you're using for comparison."

"Hah," he says. "You and Nat, always with the old guy jokes."

"You gonna be able to get up out of that chair without a walker?"

"That's it. After we get Barnes settled for the night, you and me are gonna go a few rounds in the gym. I'll show you how decrepit I am."

"Ooh, good word. Can you spell it?"

He laughs.

"I get why he likes you so much," he says. "Peggy had a similar sense of humor, though I think you're meaner."

You shrug, smirking a bit. "Product of my environment," you tell him. "If I could get my dad laughing, he'd stop _hitting_. Sometimes."

Steve winces.

"Bucky told me, a little, about what happened."

"How detailed did he get?" you ask, a bit annoyed that Barnes would share your secret.

"Just that your father would put his hands on you, and your mother. He said he died when you were pretty young, and while I'm not one to celebrate anyone's death, I guess that was probably for the best."

You nod, grateful that Barnes had the wherewithal to keep some of the grislier details from his friend.

"He didn't have an easy life, and I strongly suspect my Grandad subjected him to worse treatment than he bestowed upon me. Not an excuse, but it makes it less… random."

Steve nods and shifts in the chair, bites his lip. Swears softly under his breath, then rounds on you.

"He does love you, you know," he blurts out, meaning Barnes. He leans forward, forearms resting against strong thighs. He hangs his head for a minute and then continues.

"When we were kids, we used to make these plans about how one day we'd each meet a girl and just _know_ she was the one. Like the heroes in the comics we'd pick up at the corner store. Some pretty dame with a bit of spunk who'd sass the hero and he'd just fall head-over-heels, and two issues later, they'd be getting hitched, only she'd get captured in the issue after _that_, tied to the railroad tracks or locked up in the villain's lair."

He looks over at you, checking to see if you're following the confession.

"And he'd do _anything_ to get her back. That's what we wanted, what we thought would happen, and we were just dumb kids, so why not? I was so sick all the time though, and the doctors were pretty blunt about my odds of surviving to adulthood. But I wanted it for him, y'know? So when he'd show up with a girl for me to take out with him and his date, I'd go along, even though none of them ever had eyes for me, because he was _so sure_ we'd find the right combination eventually."

"And you found Natasha," you say, fast-forwarding to the present.

"Unexpectedly," he said. "And literally against all common sense and all statistical odds, yes. I found Natasha. Though to be honest, it was more like she found me. Nothing's exactly like it is in the stories," he says with a laugh. "Turns out, sometimes it's the pretty dame who rescues the hero, and sometimes she's a hero too."

"And you think that Barnes and me-?"

"_He_ thinks so, and one or two questionable decisions aside, I trust his judgment."

He pauses, worrying his lip between his teeth, and leans back in his chair.

"It's the real deal," he says. "I know Bucky almost as well as I know myself. So, fragile psychological state aside, he's got it bad for you."

"Where is this going, Rogers?"

"As much as I want my best friend to be happy, and as important as I think it is for him to continue holding on to the hope that there's something—_someone_-waiting for him on the other side of this whole ugly mess, I don't want to see him get hurt. So if this isn't real for you, you need to put together an exit strategy, and _fast_."

"You're asking me to tell you that I love a man I just met, who I still barely know, and who barely knows me. A man who is struggling to keep his own mind in one piece, and who—as of six months ago—was one of the most feared assassins in modern history."

"No, not really," Steve says. "Just tell me there's _something_ there on your end of things."

"Well I should think that were obvious by now," you snort. "What else do I have to do, buy him flowers? Write him a bloody sonnet? Tattoo his name right above my-"

"I'm just looking out for my friend," he sighs. "I know things change, and you can't predict where we'll all be a year from now, or even a month from now... "

"Good, because for a second there it sounded like you were going to start providing name suggestions for our firstborn."

"I'm being overprotective, I know. But Bucky is like my brother. No, _is_ my brother. He spent his whole life protecting me. I'm just returning the favor."

"I can't promise anything, Rogers. I can't even put a name on what it is I _do_ feel. I don't…" You stumble, searching for the right words and finding yourself struggling to get them to cooperate. "I don't usually let people get this close. Was always too busy keeping an eye on Ana, making sure she was okay, happy, _safe_. Wanting something, or someone, for myself is… It's a bit bizarre. I don't know how to do this, not even under normal circumstances, which ours most certainly are not."

"Fair enough," Rogers concedes. "Sorry if that was weird. Or pushy. I'm looking out for him the best I can."

"Things happen the way they're supposed to happen," you tell him. "I wish I could provide a more concrete answer for you, but it's all I've got. I'm not going to hurt him if I can avoid it. He's not a notch on my belt."

"Good," he says, though his face remains as grim as before. "He deserves to be more than that. And you deserve to _have _more than that."

You blush and look away, clearing your throat with concerted effort.

"I'm going to make you pay dividends when we spar for making me feel feelings, Rogers," you quip.

"Promise?" he asks, smirking in that lopsided way he seems to have made his trademark.

"Glutton for punishment," you laugh, feeling the tight coil of anxiety that had been building behind your breastbone start to unwind.

You go back and forth like that for a while, trading verbal barbs and thinly veiled threats of future retribution in the gym. The repartee is interrupted when Dr. Stapleton opens her office door.

"What's wrong?" you ask, feeling your pulse jump at her sudden appearance.

"It was going well, more progress than I could have hoped after such a dismal start," she says, looking at both of you. "He's shutting down and asking for you both. Well, not _asking_, so much as repeating your names over and over."

She pinches the bridge of her nose.

"The briefest glimpse into what he experienced and _I_ want to strangle Alexander Pierce," she says.

"Get in line," you breathe, moving past her, with Steve hot on your heels, and into the office. Barnes isn't seated in the chair anymore, and it takes you a minute to find him. He's pressed into the corner furthest from the door, head bowed almost to his knees and his hands—metal and flesh—covering the top of his head. He's shaking, sucking down air like a landed fish.

"Christ," you swear, and both you and Rogers get on either side of him as quickly as possible.

You sit down next to Barnes, scooting close, and wrap your arm around his good one, leaving Rogers to contend with the other. You work his fingers loose from his hair, which he was pulling at with alarming determination, and though he resists the guided movement, you finally manage to bring the appendage down to his side.

"Barnes?" you call quietly, using your free hand to comb back the thick fringe of brown hair from his face.

"It's okay, Bucky," Steve adds, still trying to disengage the metal fingers from pulling another clump of hair from the scalp.

Barnes whimpers in response and shakes harder, feet pushing against the sleek floor of the office to press further against the wall.

"Easy," you soothe. "I need you to talk to me, Sergeant."

You brush the back of your fingers against his temple, his cheek and he _flinches_ as if your touch burns.

Steve has finally manages to get the metal arm under control, pinning it with the strength of both of his.

"He's slipping, Steve," you tell him, feeling your own breath come hiccupping out.

"JARVIS, we need Banner down here with sedatives," Rogers demands, looking up at the ceiling as if that's where the AI lives. You know it's a last resort, and that Steve wouldn't even consider it unless it was absolutely necessary, but there's really no way to _know_ if Barnes will slip into a fugue state or tear the room apart in full Winter Soldier mode.

"Right away, Captain," the AI responds, and you wonder if he's been monitoring all of this from the get-go. Probably.

You let go of Barnes' arm, which immediately returns to tugging at his own hair, moving around to face him. You push his knees apart, worming your way forward until you can get both arms around his torso. You lift your legs over his hips, and are practically seated in his lap. You pull him in, as much as he'll let you, and start to hum the only lullaby that ever seemed to calm Ana when she was still young enough to allow a bit of coddling from you.

You lean your forehead against his, shocked by how feverish his skin feels, and try—as you always do—to remember the words of the song whose name you never knew. It was something your mother had sung to you before you could even walk. By the time you were old enough to ask her about it, the words had been burned from her brain from years spent drowning in liquor and pills.

So you hum, because there aren't any words any more, and maybe that's for the best, because you're not entirely sure you could conjure them up with the way your throat is constricting. It's hard enough to keep a steady stream of air moving from lungs to mouth, but you manage, because it's _Barnes_, and if you can't do something this simple, then what good are you to him?

"Пожалуйста," he says. _Please_. His voice is so small and quiet, you wonder if you imagined it.

You shush him anyway, frightened of what it may mean that he's back to speaking in Russian.

"Я сделаю лучше."

"Вы хорошо," you assure him. "Вы в безопасности."

He shakes his head, eyes finally peeking out from behind his hair. They're so full of _terror_ it actually hurts to meet his gaze.

"Я сделаю лучше. Мне не нужно огонь," he says, begging. "Пожалуйста, не присылайте мне далеко."

"No one is going to send you away, Barnes. No one is going to hurt you," you promise him, dropping the embrace to bring both hands to press against the sides of his face.

"Я не хочу огонь. Я не хочу холода, который наступает после. Я буду хорошо," he cries. "Я боюсь."

"There's nothing… Nothing to be scared of, James. You're with me and Steve, remember? We're in New York. No fire, no _cold_. We would never hurt you."

He shakes his head.

"Я сделаю лучше. Я буду повиноваться," he promises.

You close your eyes and decide that as detestable as the idea is, it may be the only thing that keeps him calm until Banner arrives with the requested sedatives.

"У вас есть миссия. Ты будешь повиноваться," you grind out, fighting the urge to vomit, hating yourself for doing this to him, even though it needs to be done.

"What are you doing?" Steve asks as Barnes suddenly stops moving, as his ragged breathing evens out and his hands drop from his head to hang limp at his sides.

"What I have to," you tell Rogers. "He'll hate me for it later, but I can't listen to this anymore."

Barnes lifts his face and his gaze is blank, utterly passive. An empty vessel waiting for instructions.

"Вы будете спокойны. Вы не будете бояться. Медицина идет, чтобы помочь вам," you tell him.

"How the hell do you know so much Russian?" Steve demands.

"Polyglot," you tell him. "Some people collect action figures. I collect languages."

Steve seems to accept that as a viable answer, though you're sure it will come up again. You briefly wonder how accepting he'll be to learn that language _does _have a genetic element. People aren't born knowing what will become their native tongue, but their brains _are_ hard-wired to understand and interpret different aspects of language that aren't necessarily shared from one to the next. Tiny changes in the language center of your brain makes learning and retaining foreign tounges much easier for you than most other people.

All of that can wait for later though. You return your attention to the barely congnizant man on the floor, still shaking and struggling to breathe.

"Barnes," you start, "Do you know who I am?"

He squints at you, then at the floor, then back at you again.

"Не обработчик," he says, then more thickly, "N...Not. Hydra."

You smile and can't help the small flutter of triumph that flickers in your belly.

"Good, that's very good," you tell him, brushing your thumbs under his eyes, across his cheekbones.

"Они мне больно. Вы...Не надо."

"No, we would never hurt you. We're your friends," you reiterate.

"F…Friends?"

"Yes. You were talking to a doctor, a psychologist, and you went away for a few minutes. You're finding your way back though."

"Я был потерян. Ты нашел меня?"

"I'll always find you, Barnes."

He sighs and slumps forward into you and you're almost knocked over by the sudden press of his full weight against your chest. Steve tries to pull him upright, but both of Barnes' arms wrap around you as if he were holding on for dear life.

Banner bursts into the room, and by the look of worry on his face, you know he's not just here because he's an Avenger, or because Barnes is something of a medical curiosity.

"What happened?" he asks. "Tony damn near fired Hill for ordering an entire security team to storm the floor. Put her on administrative leave until further notice."

Barnes pulls you tighter, tucking his face into your shoulder like he did at the safehouse in Queens.

"Sir would like to know if he should suit up," JARVIS announces.

"Not necessary," you reply, threading your fingers through Barnes' hair. "We have it under control. Everyone can stand down."

"Noted," JARVIS responds. "Sir is coming downstairs anyway. Miss Potts is preparing a larger room on the guest floor for Sergeant Barnes once he's ready to move.

"Doc… said," Barnes mumbles against your shirt. "Bigger room… too much."

"Don't worry about that," you tell him, relieved that you probably won't need the sedatives after all. "We'll make sure your new bed is just as uncomfortable."

He huffs warm air against your neck and you hope it's a laugh.

"I… forgot myself," he says, fingers of both hands flexing against your skin. "_Fuck_," he breathes. "That… was bad."

"You worked past it, Buck," Steve reminds him. "We just sat here and talked. You did all the hard work on your own."

"Don't… patronize me… Punk."

"Jerk," Steve throws back, and you can see the tension, the _fear_, draining out of him by the second.

"Barnes, do you want the tablets we gave you earlier when Stark was working on your arm? They help control anxiety."

After a moment of consideration, he nods.

"Hard to…think. Breathe," he says. "Heart is… pounding."

"I know, I can feel it," you tell him, and it's so rapid, so _birdlike_, that you're certain a normal person would have gone into arrest.

Steve presses a hand against Barnes' back.

"Take a deep breath, buddy. Hold it."

Barnes does as Steve asks, though he stutters through the inhale.

"Now let it out slow," Steve continues.

You turn your head to catch Banner's eye. "Klonopin?"

"I brought some," he says, and passes you three pills, one more than you had used earlier that day. "I'll get him some water."

"Here," Tony says, having just arrived on scene. He tosses Banner a silver canister that must be some kind of fancy (and probably expensive) water bottle, but remains in the doorway, hands hidden in the pockets of a pair of well-tailored slacks. He left the matching jacket upstairs, you figure, maybe tossed in a corner as he got ready to don his _other_ suit, and was then forgotten when you signaled the all clear to JARVIS.

"How is he?" Stark asks, not able to actuallylook directly at the person in question.

You just shake your head, not wanting to discourage Barnes as he works through some kind of breathing exercise with Steve.

Banner passes you the water bottle and you unscrew the cap. You motion to Steve to back up a bit and you both push Bucky into a more upright position.

"Here," you tell him, handing him the tablets. "Same as earlier. Anti-anxiety meds."

"I took two before," he says.

"You weren't as sick," you remind him. "We need to get this under control."

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, swallowing the pills with a long draught from the offered water bottle.

"Stop it, you didn't do anything wrong. We knew this wasn't going to be an easy process."

"I scared you," he persists, then looks at Steve. "Both of you."

"You scared the entire building, Sergeant," Tony drawls from the doorway. "Including the floors that don't officially exist. And now a very angry former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent is cursing me to the seventh circle of hell for taking her toys away."

"I'm sorry," Barnes says again, before you can tell Stark to go jump off the roof of his horrendous skyscraper.

"What for? No one threatens my family without my express consent. She deserved to get a time out," Tony says with a shrug.

"Family?" Barnes says, brows knitting in confusion. He looks to Steve for an explanation.

"Well you live here, don't you?" Stark continues.

"Yes?" Barnes responds, still troubled by the course of the conversation, and obviously struggling to follow it.

"Right, so you're either a tenant—which would make me a landlord, and that doesn't really work for me—or you're _family_. Like Rogers, Banner, Barton, and Natasha, once I convince her to move in. Thor seems to prefer that crappy apartment he shares with Jane, but I'm pretty sure I can tempt the God of Thunder if I pitch it just right. Baby steps."

"But I—Your parents…"

"Let me work out _my_ hang-ups with _my_ therapist," Stark says, waving Bucky off. "What's done is done, and we already covered my not blaming you for what happened. Trust me, when the time comes, I plan to blow up _a lot_ of Hydra compounds."

"I think it might be best if we gave Sergeant Barnes some space," you announce, returning your attention to him as his breathing slowly evens out. "Steve and I can handle this from here."

"Of course," Tony says, stepping back from the doorway. "Pepper and I have a reservation at Damon Baehrel, so we should get going anyway."

"Miss Potts reports that the master suite on the guest floor is ready, and she'll be waiting downstairs with Happy for you, Sir."

"Can't keep a lady waiting," Stark says. "Promise not to burn the house down while we're gone."

Banner ducks out as well, shrugging off the thanks you and Steve offer.

"How're we doing?" you ask, tipping Barnes' chin up from its tucked position against his chest.

"Better," he says, eyes darting to yours. "Feel like I could sleep for a year."

Steve helps him up to his feet, though a wave of dizziness threatens to put him right back on the ground before he steadies himself.

"This is pathetic," he says, holding his forehead with his metal hand. His other arm is thrown over Steve's shoulder, the slightly taller man keeping his friend on his feet with his own impressive strength.

"Give yourself a break," Steve admonishes. "Accept that this isn't going to get better overnight. We're gonna have to work at it."

Barnes falls silent and lets himself to be lead out of the office to the elevator. You trail slightly behind, allowing Steve to do the heavy lifting, listening as he encourages Bucky to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

"Just like Austria," Barnes says, and Steve stiffens slightly. "You got me out of that hell hole, too."

"Course I did," Steve says, motioning for you to hail the elevator. "They said there was a chance you were alive. Couldn't just leave you behind. I would have—" he hesitates, swallowing thickly. "I would have gone back for you in the Alps, too, if I'd had the chance."

"I know you would have," Barnes says. "_Really_ wish you hadn't crashed that plane, but I know you didn't have a choice. Just how things worked out, I guess."

"You ever wonder how we ended up like this?" Steve asks, shaking his head. "We were just two kids from Brooklyn. Nothing special, though all the girls in the old neighborhood thought _you_ hung the moon…"

Barnes smiles a little, though it never reaches his eyes.

"They'd think you hung the sun if they could see you now, pal, or if they'd bothered to get to know you then. Their loss."

The elevator finally arrives and all three of you ride up to the Guest floor. Barnes is half asleep on his feet, leaning on Steve enough that it makes the Captain wince from the additional weight. You slip your hand in Barnes' artificial one and he closes his fingers around yours.

"Haven't scared you off yet?" he asks, looking down at you with his eyes nearly closed.

"Big brave girl," you tell him. "Don't scare easily."

He smiles again, briefly, and this time the edges of his eyes crease a bit.

The elevator opens and JARVIS directs you to the master suite, down past the smaller rooms you and Barnes had been staying in.

"Woah," you exhale as the door swings open, revealing the massive apartment beyond.

"Definitely Pepper's taste," Steve says, nodding.

The furniture is modest but elegant, with soft muted colors everywhere, save for vibrant splashes on the various canvasses scattered on the walls. A long row of seamless, floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the city, opening to a spacious balcony packed with lush plants and sculptural lounge chairs that double as art pieces on their own.

"Bed," Barnes croaks, shifting his weight a little to take some of the strain off of Rogers' shoulders. "Need to lie down."

You hustle him into the bedroom, which is tucked behind a curved wall that separates it from the main living quarters. The windows here are tinted so dark they block most of the light, leaving the room cool and calm. An enormous bed (has to be custom made) juts out from the opposite wall.

After depositing Barnes on the bed, you pick up a note left on one of the pillows, written in Pepper's graceful, flowing script. You read it aloud, fairly confident that he doesn't have the energy or focus to do it himself.

"_Sergeant Barnes—_

_Please consider this your apartment until we can set up a floor of your own (I've kept the one below Captain Rogers' free for this express purpose). If there is anything you like, or dislike, do not hesitate to let myself or JARVIS know. I would like to make sure your future quarters are tailored to your personal tastes and preferences, so the more information you provide, the better._

_Welcome home._

_Respectfully Yours,_

_Pepper Potts_

_P.S.—JARVIS has informed me that you prefer a firm mattress (something about soldiers and sleeping on floors?). Please note that this one is adjustable. The controls are on the nightstand, or you can ask JARVIS to do it for you." _

"Sainthood for sure," you murmur, replacing the note where you found it. "Maybe a Nobel Peace Prize as well."

Barnes exhales slowly and lies back on the bed. He doesn't reach for the control mentioned in the note, so you figure Pepper must hava adjusted the firmness to something she thought he'd be comfortable with before leaving.

"I think I've got it from here, Steve," you say, looking over at Rogers who has once again jammed his hands into his pockets. "I'll let you know of any significant changes."

"Right," he says, nodding. "You need anything before I go, Buck?"

Barnes just shakes his head, curling up on himself and facing away from you both.

Steve looks at you and mouths a "good luck," then "thank you," before slipping out of the room.

"Would you be more comfortable in sweats and a t-shirt?" you ask him, perching on the edge of the bed and starting to untie his boots (always boots, never shoes).

"Yes," he answers. "A… hoodie?"

You leave the suite briefly to retrieve some of his clothing from his old room, gathering up the carefully folded items (so few, barely a drawer full), his toiletries, and a dog-eared copy of _The Sun Also Rises_ from the desk. There's a photo album too, one that Steve probably cobbled together, so you grab that as well.

"You don't appear to own a sweatshirt, Barnes," you tell him, returning to his room and setting his things down where he can see them.

"I can go out and pick up a few things for you, if you want. You don't even have a week's worth of clothes here."

He shrugs, still curled up in the same position you left him in.

"If I may," JARVIS interrupts. "Please provide a list of what items you need, and I will dispatch someone to purchase them. Miss Potts has created an account for Sergeant Barnes, one that Stark Industries will cover all costs for."

"Thank you, JARVIS. And please tell both Pepper and Tony the same."

Barnes doesn't seem interested in the conversation, so you rattle off several dozen items you think he'll need; everything from clothes, to shoes, over-the-counter meds, a small list of books, and a laptop, amongst other items.

"Very good, madam. The pantry should be fully stocked, though if you need any additional items, please do not hesitate to ask."

"I actually enjoy hitting the markets," you tell the AI. "But thank you. You've been an enormous help."

"My pleasure. Shall I monitor Sergeant Barnes' bio-rhythms?"

"I think that might be a good idea," you answer. "Can you keep records of the data for review later?"

"Of course," he answers, almost sounding offended that you'd even ask. "I will make sure that Dr. Banner is made aware of them as well."

You nod, then gently turn Barnes over onto his back.

"Can you sit up for me?"

He pushes himself upright and helps you peel off his sweat-soaked shirt. You toss it into a corner, making a mental note to ask JARVIS about the tower's laundry services later.

"You should take a bath to get rid of the chill," you suggest, pressing the back of your hand against his chest and feeling the clammy, cold skin.

"Is that an order?" he asks, and if his voice wasn't so flat, you might have thought he was teasing.

You'd hoped the command you'd provided in Russian had evaporated from his memory once he came back to himself. "You remember that?" you ask, grimacing.

"Ты сказал Стиву, что вы собираете языков,"he snarls. "Это правда?"

"What other reason would I have?" you counter. "Or do you think I'm secretly a Hydra operative, or KGB?"

"There is no more KGB," he snaps.

"Well whatever equivalent exists now," you sigh, moving away from the bed to stand against the tinted windows. "Do you really not trust me anymore?"

"Почему вы так со мной?"

"Christ, Barnes, you were fading away, right there in front of me. Begging me not to hurt you, promising you'd do better. You thought we were going to wipe your brain and then put you in cryo. You told me you were afraid, do you remember any of that?"

"Да," he says with a curt nod.

"I was trying to stop that thought process. It was the only thing I could come up with short of sedating you. You didn't know me, or Steve, and I was afraid you were going to hurt yourself."

"Или вы."

"Don't say that like I'm horrible for considering it."

He looks away from you, then swings his legs over the side of the bed so he's sitting in a more comfortable position.

"Не делай так больше," he says. "Not ever."

"Barnes…" You take a step forward. "I didn't… It wasn't meant to hurt you, or to make you feel like—"

"It did. Regardless of your intentions, it _did_ make me feel like a thing again."

You move back towards the windows, flinching from the angry stare he levels at you.

"I'm sorry, I made a mistake," you offer, but the heat behind his eyes doesn't soften or waver. Unable to stand there for another moment, you leave the room, and he doesn't stop you or call for you to come back.

You're so focused on getting _away_, that you nearly barrel right over Steve as he runs into the suite, a little breathless and flushed.

"Sorry!" he says, catching you before you trip over his feet. "I didn't mean to barge in, but—are you okay?"

He draws back a little to better see your face, undoubtedly catching the shine of tears in your eyes.

"What'd he do?" he asks, eyes narrowing, darting to the curved wall.

"Not his fault," you answer. "It was what I said to him earlier in Russian; the command that made him relax."

"That idiot," he growls. "Just let him calm down, then he'll spend hours apologizing and everything will be fine."

You just shrug and step around him, heading for the door again.

"Hey, wait! I was rushing in here to get you," he says.

"Me? Why?"

"It's Natasha," he says. "She found the sniper. It _was_ that guy we were hearing about. Crossbones."

"Where is she?"

"Alberta, Canada," he says. "She's been doing recon on a cabin up there, near Lake Louise."

"How does she know he's the shooter from the museum?" you ask.

"Instinct," he answers, "and I trust Nat's instincts as much as I do my own. This guy is bad news, and she says he was visited by a group of five men this morning. Soldier-types. Guess how they greeted each other?"

_Hail Hydra_.

You look away and swear.

"So even if he's_ not _our sniper, he's some kind of Hydra Big Bad, and Natasha is sitting on their Canadian clubhouse without backup."

"Exactly," Steve says. "I told her that I'd assemble the team and storm the place, but she thinks there's additional information to mine by watching for a few more days. She wants to bug the cabin."

"That's dangerous," you observe. "Small quarters, with six Hydra Operatives inside, one of whom we know is a marksman with a reputation worth chattering about. I know she's good, Steve, but can she get inside, bug the place, and get out without anyone noticing? It could get _really_ bad if she were caught."

"We discussed the same thing. She believes she can do it without too much trouble, but I asked JARVIS to run some numbers based on prior missions and evaluate our chances of success. It wasn't good."

"I can do it," you tell him. "Drop me a few hundred miles from her location and we'll link up. I can get her spy equipment inside without anyone knowing. No one notices another mouse or raccoon hanging around."

"Nat suggested the same thing," he says. "But you're not an Avenger, not officially, and I'm not sure you should be getting this involved. Especially when I know your people in Westchester aren't particularly thrilled about all the time you spend here."

"JARVIS?"

"Yes madam."

"What were Natasha's odds of success if we went with her initial plan?"

"Approximately 28.8%. If I were being generous, 30%. Pessimistic, 15.6%," he answers immediately. "Not odds that I find particularly encouraging."

"And if we go with the second plan, adding a shapeshifter into the mix who can navigate the terrain easily, and slip inside the cabin as something innocuous and unnoticed?"

"I would have to get creative with the numbers," the AI explains. "I don't know enough about your abilities or your previous missions to guarantee accuracy."

"Humor me," you tell him, arms crossed.

"63.8%. High side: 75.4%. Low: 55.2%."

You raise an eyebrow at Steve.

"We have to discuss this as a team. I don't get to call the shots on my own," he says.

"But?"

"But… Those numbers are pretty persuasive."

"You call your meeting. I'll conference with my team. Let's shoot for wheels up in an hour. The sooner I'm there, the sooner Natasha and I can come home."

"Are you _insane_?"

You turn around to see Barnes standing in the hallway leading to the bedroom. He's leaning against the wall, exhausted.

"You are not going on this mission," he says.

"That's not your decision, Barnes," you tell him, turning back to face Steve. "Give me a half hour to bring the Professor up to speed. Logan will hate the idea, but he won't put up too much of a fight. He knows I'm more stubborn than he is. Dr. Grey and 'Ro will back me. Summers will feed me some line about choosing our battles, but he'll defer to Charles in the end."

"You think you can convince him?"

"I do. He's doing what he can to protect the school, to keep them out of the kind of messes the _team_ gets dragged into, but he won't tell me I can't do something that I think is important. I'm not his employee, and he's not my father. He might not want the team involved, but he's never tried to keep any of us leashed. We've all gone off on solo missions before, personal vendettas and the like."

"Hey!" Barnes shouts. "Don't pretend like I'm not here, and that I don't get a say in this."

"You don't," you snap at him. "And even if you _did_, this is our best chance of—"

"Of what?" Barnes asks. "Of finding out what Crossbones wants? He wants me dead, mystery solved. Of finding out what Hydra wants? All of us dead, another mystery solved."

"We have no idea what else they might have planned," Steve counters. "They went underground and their ranks have been thinned, but don't think for a second that they didn't have contingencies in place for this exact scenario. These people are methodical—"

"You don't need to remind me of that," Barnes spits, stalking forward into the room. "I spent 70 goddamn _years_ getting an up close and personal demonstration of their _methodical nature_. I am NOT going to let you send her in there."

"I'm not a child, Barnes," you say, spinning around on him. "Do you think this is my first mission? Or the first time I've walked into something extremely dangerous?"

You jab a finger toward his chest.

"Stop acting like you're the only person in the room who can take a hit, who can take risks. You _cannot _bring down Hydra on your own. Neither can Steve. You _need_ to let other people step in and take some of the weight."

"You don't know what they're capable of," he says, grabbing your offending hand by the wrist. "They will do _unspeakable_ things if you're captured."

"Then I won't get captured."

"You're not going," he says again, shoving your hand away. "I'll hold you down myself if I have to."

"Go ahead and try," you sneer. "See how well that works when you're wrestling with 20 foot crocodile."

"You think I won't?" he asks, voice gone low and dangerous. He closes the distance between you both and grabs you by both shoulders. "You think I won't do whatever I have to in order to keep you safe?"

You bring your arms up inside the circle of his own and snap them outwards, knocking his arms away and breaking his grip.

"Not your job," you tell him. "I don't want a protector, Barnes. Never have. I am _going_, and I will do whatever is necessary to get inside that sodding cabin and retrieve the information Natasha needs. End of discussion."

"Buck, you need to back off," Steve warns, stepping in and pressing a firm hand against his friend's chest.

"Get your hands off of me," Barnes snarls. "If she goes, and something happens, I will _never_ forgive you, Rogers."

"Stop being so damn melodramatic," you demand. "No one can guarantee an op will go off without any problems, but you're going to have to trust me to handle them. If this goes tits up, we will call in the team and you can level the bloody cabin and salt the earth on which it stood."

"The first sign things are going sideways…"

"We will call the Avengers in," you promise, motioning for Steve to step back. "_You_ are not cleared for active duty and will not involve yourself in this beyond working logistics from here."

"She's right, Bucky. After your episode today, we can't risk it. We don't know if there are triggers these guys could use to make you turn on the team."

"If they exist, they'll always be there," he counters.

"Yeah, but in six months or a year, you might be strong enough—mentally—to resist them. You think you're at that point now?"

"… No."

"Then listen to your girl. She's smarter than you."

Eventually, Barnes relents, though you firmly believe his submission is due more to exhaustion than actual agreement with the plan that you, Steve, and Natasha have quickly hammered out.

You and Steve leave the master suite and head up to the 5th floor, which Stark has set up as the Avengers' equivalent of the War Room you're accustomed to back home. Banner joins you both in the conference room, looking as fidgety and awkward as ever. You spend a few minutes discussing what had happened to Barnes with him while Steve fusses with the equipment needed to start the meeting. JARVIS offers to assist, but Steve insists on doing it himself.

"Have to figure this out eventually…" he mutters, smacking the side of a monitor that has emerged from beneath the smooth surface of the table.

Eventually, he gets everything working, and most of the active Avengers join the three of you in a virtual meeting (something like Skype, but with touches of Tony Stark to make everything seem impossibly futuristic and shiny). A few, like Wilson (the newest official member) and Barton abstain from giving an opinion, as they haven't met you. They do agree that Natasha should have final call on the mission, as she's the one in the field and therefore has the best sense of what the situation calls for.

"If Nat thinks she's the best option, then she is," Barton says with heavy finality. "Can we track her with a GPS chip?"

"No," you tell the assembled group with a shake of your head. "As soon as I morph, any equipment that isn't part of my genetic structure will be rejected. It'll just get left behind as evidence that someone dropped in. Clothes, earpiece, tracking chips… It all goes the second I change form."

"Well that's inconvenient," Barton grouses. "How do we keep tabs on you?"

"My sister knows how to find me. So do a few other people at the school," you supply, not wanting to go into further detail.

"Well that's not cryptic or weird," the archer replies.

"JARVIS can hack every satellite in orbit to relay what's happening on the ground. There'll be a few seconds of delay, but it'll have to do," Tony says, conferencing in from his car as he and Pepper return home from their date night.

The meeting closes with most of the team setting out for Avengers Tower, in case the cavalry does need to be called in. Tony informs everyone that Thor has returned, temporarily, to Asgard. Something to do with a troublesome brother in dire need of an ass-kicking.

"Your turn," Steve says, leaning back in his chair at the long conference table as you pull out your cell phone (much less impressive than Stark's fancy system). You select the number for the Professor's office, which he picks up within two rings.

Charles manages to gather up the majority of your teammates into his office as you go over the details of the proposed mission.

You make sure to emphasize how much of a threat you believe Hydra is, and note that there's a strong likelihood they'll eventually take an interest in mutants, if they haven't already. These people covet _power_, you tell them, and you all know how quickly the tables can turn when someone like Erik Lehnsherr or Cain Marko enters the picture. Just imagine, you warn, what it would mean if the worst of the mutant world got in bed with Hydra.

"Scare tactics aren't going to work," Summers tells you. "No matter how grounded in reality they may be. We need proof that this is happening before we throw our hat into the ring."

"Agreed," Logan growls, and you imagine he's got an unlit stogie in his mouth even now, despite how much the Professor hates them.

"I'm not asking for the X-Men to put boots on the ground, or even loan out the Blackbird—"

"That's definitely not on the table," Summers grumbles.

"And I shouldn't need to remind any of you that I don't need permission to do this."

"Then why the phone call?" Ororo asks, though unlike her male counterparts (the Professor excluded), her voice holds no trace of aggression or disapproval.

"I don't _need_ permission, but I'd like to get it anyway. You're my family."

"That won't stop just because we don't agree with this," Scott sighs. "I've known you since you were a kid and taught you most of what you know in terms of combat—"

"Hey," Logan interrupts. "She fights more like me than you, Cyke."

"Oh for God's sake," Jean groans. "You _both_ did a wonderful job teaching her how to _hit things_."

"You have my permission," Charles interjects. "And my support. Jean and I can keep tabs on your location. I'd rather not involve Ana; she's still too young for this sort of thing."

"Don't tell her that," you chuckle. "She'll pout for a week."

"If anything goes wrong," Scott says, "We're coming to get you out. No arguments."

"Deal," you tell him.

The call ends with everyone more-or-less on the same page, though Logan gets the last word in by once again expressing how much he doesn't like getting mixed up in Avengers business. You tell him not to think about it too much. You don't want him to hurt himself from the effort.

"Smartass," he accuses.

"Learned from the best," you throw back and then hang up before the conversation devolves further. Logan can be incredibly childish when he wants to be, but then again, so can you.

"All good?" Steve asks, and you nod in response.

"You'll drop in via Quinjet," he says. "Natasha and Barton are our default pilots, but I can manage with JARVIS as my co-pilot."

"I would be honored, Sir," JARVIS chimes in. "I'll send the flight deck crew to the roof to prepare for our departure. Report in 20 minutes, please."

"You gonna say goodbye?" Steve asks. "I know he's in a mood, but—"

"I'm not that mean," you admonish. "I'll meet you on the roof in a bit."

"I'm going to call Nat and let her know Plan B is a go," he says before asking JARVIS to contact her.

You nod and duck out of the conference room, returning to the Guest floor, chewing on your thumb as you try to think of what to say, because you don't want to leave on bad terms (just in case the worst _should_ happen).

He's waiting outside the elevator doors, pacing nervously and stopping only when he catches sight of you.

"Hey," you offer, tucking both arms behind your back. "Wheels up in 20 minutes. Didn't want to just leave."

He waits for you to step out and into the hallway.

"I am truly, deeply sorry for what I did earlier," you tell him. "I panicked. And I couldn't stand the things you were saying, or the idea that you were seeing Steve and I as a threat."

"Am I being punished?" he asks, running his metal hand through his hair and tugging at the ends of the long strands. "Is that why you're going?"

"What? No," you answer, taking him by the elbow and leading him back to his new apartment.

"I was angry," he says, resuming his pacing in the living area. "I don't want you or Steve—especially not you—to see me as a… a _thing_."

"I don't. Neither of us do, and I will never use the command again, I swear." You decide to take the risk of being pushed away, stepping in and interrupting his frantic stride. Your arms slip around his chest, not nearly long enough for your hands to touch as you stretch around the broad expanse of ribs and muscle. "I'm sorry, Barnes."

He shudders and then pulls you so close that for a split second you think he might mean to crush you. He ducks his head, burying his face in your hair and inhales.

"I know, it's okay. I forgive you."

"Good," you mutter into his shirt. "Don't know if I could have left if you were still angry with me."

"In that case, I _don't_ forgive you. You'll stay here now?"

"Barnes…" you laugh into his chest. "Don't be such a mother hen."

"This is too dangerous," he warns. "There's no reason for you to do this."

"I have every reason," you counter. "They aren't going to stop just because they sacrificed a few helicarriers. These people lost a World War and managed to scrape themselves together again. Worse than cockroaches."

"If something happens," he chokes. "I don't think I can hold myself together without you."

"We're going to have to have a long conversation about your codependency," you chastise, though it's gently meant.

"I should be going with you," he insists.

"You're not ready."

"Neither are you," he huffs, tucking his face into your neck and shoulder, a position he seems to favor.

"I've been going on missions worse than this since I was 19," you tell him. "So full of piss and vinegar, and unearned swagger that it took a few heavy beatings to convince me I didn't know shit about what I was doing."

"They let you go knowing you weren't ready?" he asks, pulling back a bit.

"It was the only way I was going to learn," you say with a shrug. "19-year-old me wasn't a thing like the person you know now. I was _very_ angry, and stubborn, short-sighted, and possessed by something of a fatalistic streak. A lot like someone else I know, come to think of it…"

He snorts.

"I have to do this, Barnes. If bugging the cabin gives us a single piece of information that helps topple their organization, it'll be worth it. And…"

"And what?" he asks, smoothing your hair back behind your ears, running both sets of fingers through the strands.

"They _hurt_ you," you remind him. You feel the flash of heat behind your eyes, the emotions swirling in your head and your gut adding a feral edge to the outline of your core self.

"Is there anything I can say that would convince you to abandon the mission?" he asks.

"No," you tell him. "I'm going, and you're staying here. The day will come when we can go Hydra Hunting together, but you're not ready."

"I don't care what you or Steve, or all the doctors in this goddamn building say, if something goes wrong, I'm part of the rescue party," he states matter-of-factly. "I'm not going to sit here and listen or watch while Steve gets to play hero."

"Is that what this is about? You want to _rescue me_?" you tease gently, sticking your tongue out from between your teeth.

"I want to protect you," he corrects. "That's what I do. What I _did_ before being captured. I protected Steve, and the Commandos. I can protect you too. That's my mission. Or it will be."

"Okay," you concede. "Fair enough. But for this mission, I want you on standby. I'll have an earpiece in until the drop, so you can talk to me through the whole flight in. Once I'm on the ground and reach Natasha's position, I'll borrow hers and check in with you. We'll run the op, make sure the equipment is working, and then move to an evac point for a ride out."

"So much can go wrong," he grumbles. "Nothing ever happens exactly the way you plan it."

"Obviously, but we'll handle it. Worse case scenario, I shift into a Blue Whale and crush all of them."

"You can do that?" he asks, not sure if you're joking or not.

"Theoretically. Being beached in the middle of the Canadian wilderness would probably crush most of my internal organs if I lie about too long, but the entertainment value alone would make it worthwhile."

"You're so odd," he laughs, planting a kiss on your cheek. "One of my favorite things about you, doll."

"Wonder what that makes you?" you needle, poking him in the ribs as your cheek burns from where he had brushed lips against your skin. "Wish me luck?"

"Good hunting," he says instead. "And come back to me."

"Of course, Barnes," you say, smiling. "Come up to the flight deck. I'm supposed to be up there in a few minutes to head out."

"Okay," he agrees, releasing you from the prolonged embrace and taking you by the hand. You both walk to the elevator and JARVIS already knows where you need to be. With a barely detectable lurch, you head upward.

Barnes squeezes your hand, and you watch as his jaw clenches against what you can assume is another plea for you to stay. He swallows it down though, and sees you off to the Quinjet.

"I'm trusting you with her," he shouts to Steve, the combined noise from the engines and the wind requiring a raised voice to be heard.

"I know," Steve shouts back. "We'll be careful. Get back inside and man the comms. You were always good at running ops."

"Helluva lot better than you, Rogers," he answers before gathering you up in his arms one more time and pressing his forehead against yours.

"Promise you'll come back."

"I swear it," you tell him, and before another word can escape you, his lips are on yours, sealing your oath.

"I'm holding you to that," he says, speaking directly into your ear. "Be… safe."

You pat him on the chest, plant one more kiss on his (all too eager) mouth, hoping to soothe the downward tug that seems to have settled there.

"I'll see you in 48 hours," you tell him, and then step into the jet, tucking the earpiece offered by one of the flight crew inside the shell of your ear. You tap on the outside of it so Barnes can see that it's there.

He nods and steps back into the elevator and within minutes, you and Steve (and JARVIS) are airborne.

-End of Part III. To be Continued in Part IV-

* * *

><p><strong>Russian – English Translations<strong>

(Note: All translations are approximate. Unlike our heroine, I am _not _a polyglot.)

Пожалуйста. / Please

Я сделаю лучше. / I will do better.

Вы хорошо. / You're okay.

Вы в безопасности. / You're safe.

Я сделаю лучше. Мне не нужно огонь. / I will do better. I don't need the fire.

Пожалуйста, не присылайте мне далеко. / Please don't send me away.

Я не хочу огонь. Я не хочу холода, который наступает после. Я буду хорошо. / I don't need the fire. I don't want the cold that comes after. I'll be okay.

Я боюсь. / I'm afraid.

Я сделаю лучше. Я буду повиноваться. / I will do better. I will obey.

У вас есть миссия. Ты будешь повиноваться. / You have a mission. You will obey.

Вы будете спокойны. Вы не будете бояться. Медицина идет, чтобы помочь вам. / You will be calm. You will not be afraid. Medicine is coming to help you.

Не обработчик. / Not a handler.

Они мне больно. Вы ... Не надо. / They hurt me. You… don't.

Я был потерян. Ты нашел меня? / I was lost. You found me?

Ты сказал Стиву, что вы собираете языков. / You told Steve you collect languages.

Это правда? / Is it true?

Почему вы так со мной? / Why did you do it?

Или вы. / Or you.

Не делай так больше. / Do not do that again.


	10. Chapter 10

_The End of the Line_

The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Reader

Part IV

Ch. 1

* * *

><p>"For what are we born if not to aid one another?"<p>

-Ernest Hemingway, _For Whom the Bell Tolls_

* * *

><p>Barnes talks to you the entire flight. The conversation ranges from additional observations of how much he dislikes this plan, that he should be going in with you (just in case), and bits of advice from his time under Hydra's control.<p>

"They'll try to dominate you outright if it comes to blows," he says. "But they'll empty every magazine in that cabin before letting you get that close."

"Barnes, it's going to be fine. No one is going to have to fight anyone. They won't even know I was there."

"Listen, don't hold back if this turns into a brawl. Do as much damage as you can and then get out before they can regroup or call in backup," he continues, as though he hadn't heard you at all. "Then you run, you turn into something fast, and you _run_, do you understand me?"

"And what will Natasha do whilst I'm sprinting through the snow, all rabbit-like?"

"She can handle herself," he says. "She shouldn't even _need_ backup for this op."

"Is that what has you nervous?"

"She's the Black Widow," he states, as if that explains everything.

"She's demonstrating an abundance of caution," you assure him. "The whole point of this was to gather more intel on the person who tried to put a round in your chest."

"You saying I should be grateful that she's putting you in harm's way? That ain't gonna happen, doll."

You laugh quietly and lean back in your seat.

"You're impossible, Sergeant. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"All the time," Steve calls from the cockpit.

Barnes grumbles, and you can picture him pacing in the tower's Ops Control room, cheeks blown out as he huffs. "Just don't want you to get hurt."

"Risk of doing business," you tell him. "Can't keep me locked away in a steel box."

"I can try," he insists.

"That's illegal in the state of New York," you tease. "But if you're into that kind of thing, I'm sure we can work something out to our mutual satisfaction."

He chokes and Steve turns his head to face you from the cockpit so fast you swear you hear his vertebrae crack from the strain.

"Do you and Natasha have secret meetings to discuss ways to make us squirm?" he asks, and you don't even want to imagine some of the things Nat must taunt him with when they're alone.

"Every Tuesday and Thursday," you snicker. "She's quite talented. Impressive vocabulary."

"Buck?" Steve asks over his own headset.

"Yeah?"

"We're doomed, pal," Steve sighs.

"No kiddin'," Barnes replies. "But it'll be a good death."

Rogers chuckles and returns his attention to the flight controls.

"We're approaching the drop point," he announces, reducing the Quinjet's speed and double-checking that all of the various cloaking technology is up-and-running to mask your entry into airspace that Hydra is undoubtedly monitoring.

"Last chance to make me a very happy man and bail on this," Barnes says, his voice humming in your ear.

"I'll find a way to make it up to you. Nat may have the better vocabulary, but I have a much better imagination."

"Jesus…" Steve swears from up front. "Show the man some mercy."

"Never!" you cackle, pulling the earpiece free and shucking the flight suit you'd slipped into shortly after taking off. "If you can level off at about 5,000 feet, I should be able to manage under my own wings."

"Barnes wants to know what you plan on using for your entry," Steve says, two fingers pressed against his earpiece.

"_Bubo scandiacus_," you answer. "Snowy Owl. We're a bit high up for one to look _perfectly _ordinary, but they're native to the area and I won't be noticed. Hopefully."

Steve relates the information and opens the loading door. The wind screams inside the cabin, wild and peppered with slivers of ice that sting against your skin. It's early for so much snow this time of year, but all recent weather reports indicate that Fall will be a short season (much like Spring and Summer had been), and this isn't even the first snowfall.

"Make sure you set up the beacon at the designated extraction point," Steve shouts over the sound of the wind. "You know all the backups in case the primary is compromised, right?"

"Yes, Captain," you answer with a small salute. "I'll check in as soon as I link up with Natasha."

He nods, and without another word, you jump into the grey-white void of the Canadian wilderness.

The shock of cold air fades almost as soon as you notice it, and the flash of smoke is lost in another strong gust of wind. White flight feathers catch it, hold for a few moments as you right yourself with minute manipulations of your tail feathers, and then you drop through the storm, hoping the sturdy owl can handle the maneuver. These animals aren't built for skydiving, but your night-vision is _excellent_, along with your hearing (thanks to the owl's dish-shaped face), and as you'd mentioned to Steve, it'll blend in with the scenery.

Besides, you're not _actually_ an owl, an animal who cannot think beyond its own small cache of experience and instinct. You have a wealth of knowledge about flight, about manipulating wind currents, updrafts, turbulence, and thermals. You can make decisions and adjustments that the owl would never consider.

Once you break through the clouds, you flare your wings and tail several times to break your speed, finally drifting into the thick cover of a pine forest that reaches up like jagged teeth against the contrast of the iron sky.

You find a place to land –a dead tree bare of any needles, leaning drunkenly against a still-living neighbor—and find your bearings.

You take off again, pushing hard to reach Natasha's position as quickly as possible. Fairview Mountain rears up to your left, already covered in deep drifts of snow. To your right is a nearly unbroken chain of dark forest, and beyond both, the barest of outlines, is Devils Thumb, where Natasha is holed up near the summit, overlooking Lake Agnes to the north and Lake Louise to the southeast. The Hydra cabin is nestled into a small clearing halfway between Nat's position and The Beehive; another small mountain peak straddling the two lakes. It's remote enough to discourage visitors or inquisitive hikers, but still within driving distance of the tramline that eventually reaches the Trans-Canada Highway, and civilization beyond.

Had you been scouting with human eyes, you would have easily missed her. Wearing winter camouflage and set up under a small dome-like structure outfitted with the same shielding technology that the Quinjet uses (thank you, Stark Industries), she blends almost seamlessly into the landscape.

_Almost_.

The owl looks for movement first, and its vision is sharp enough to notice the twitch of a whiskered nose on a field mouse from a height of about 40 feet or more. Picking out Natasha as she turns her goggled face up to try catch sight of you is child's play. Steve has probably told her to look for you. You circle twice, clockwise, over her position so that she knows you've spotted her, then wind your way down, carefully breaking up your descent pattern in case anyone is watching.

The landing isn't easy. The owl has a hard time gaining purchase on the rocky ground, being much more accustomed to a brief hammerstrike of talons against unsuspecting prey before immediate liftoff and retreat to a nearby tree to feast. You finally work it out, tucking your wings and hop-walking until the distance between you is almost nothing.

You shift back into your own body, immediately covering your exposed skin with a thick double-coat of mottled white-and-grey fur.

"Neat," Natasha says, watching the transformation. "Warm enough?"

"Like a balmy summer's eve," you retort, scooting back under the almost invisible dome shelter. "Need to borrow your earpiece."

She hands it over without hesitation or extraneous movement.

"Barnes?" you ask, once you have the device fitted inside your ear.

"Safe?" he responds, and the bright edge of worry in his voice makes you wince.

"Perfectly," you tell him. "Wanted to check in before we really get things rolling."

"Be careful," he says. "_Both_ of you."

"I'm pulling back," Steve informs you. "Got a weird ping over the Adirondacks. Want to check it out before I find a place to park the jet and wait for you girls to call for your ride."

"A ping?"

"Probably nothing. A lot of S.H.I.E.L.D. facilities went dark when we —they— got shut down. It's probably a stray signal, but I want to make sure. Some of those places were used to store dangerous artifacts and weapons. Old SSR stuff."

"SSR?"

"Strategic Scientific Reserve," Natasha informs you, joining you under the dome. "Pre-cursor to S.H.I.E.L.D. Mostly set up to babysit Howard Stark while the Allies let him play with whatever they could seize from Hydra."

"Brilliant," you chirp.

"You be ready to ditch whatever you find if they call for you," Barnes warns, speaking to Steve.

"Of course, Buck. I just want to make sure the place is secure. We can investigate later."

"Did you ask Fury if he knows anything about it?" you ask, figuring the former Director would be aware of all his organization's secret bunkers and storage facilities.

"He's gone dark," Steve says with a sigh. "No one's heard from him for a little over 24 hours."

"We should cancel this op," Barnes says for what seems like the millionth time. "I have a bad feeling about it, and now Fury's missing."

"He goes 'missing' all the time. The man is like every left sock I've ever owned," you retort. "Vanishing into the void of my dryer and then magically reappearing in the back of Ana's closet a month later."

"Fury?" Natasha mouths, having to follow the conversation from your side only. You nod and her brow furrows for a moment before she shrugs. "Typical."

"Natasha isn't concerned," you tell the two soldiers. "So neither am I. Operation continues as planned. We'll check in again after the cabin is bugged."

You pass the comm to Natasha and wait while she gets it back in place.

"You want to wait for this storm to blow over?" she asks.

You shake your head. "It's good cover, and it won't interfere with what I need to do."

You spend the next half hour going over the plan again, and Natasha lays out twelve micro-cameras and microphones (so tiny!) on the floor of the shelter.

"How many can you carry at a time?" she asks.

"Depends on what I go in as. A white Ermine or Arctic Fox could carry all of them, but neither are part of the local ecosystem. I don't know how familiar 'Bones and Friends are with the area's fauna. Using either would certainly speed things up, but I'd rather err on the side of caution and stick with a Woodrat throughout."

"Gross," she huffs. "I hate rats."

"They have their uses, at least where my abilities are concerned," you offer diplomatically. "I can probably carry half of the equipment, so we'll need to do at least two trips. Once I'm inside, it shouldn't take much work to plant them. Rats have dexterous hands and their teeth can chew through pretty much anything, even concrete when hard-pressed."

She shows you that each tiny piece of equipment has a sticky strip that can be peeled back to better secure it to whatever surface is available.

"Try to keep them out of normal line-of-sight," she says. "These guys are vigilant in the typical Hydra fashion, but I don't think they expect anyone to sniff this place out. Not so soon after the Potomac, anyway."

"JARVIS is going to try to track us with those satellites Stark mentioned," you tell her. "And some of my colleagues in Westchester have their eyes—so to speak—on us as well."

"Great. One other thing," she starts, chewing on her bottom lip. "I initially counted five additional Hydra operatives along with our target, but this morning _seven_ exited the cabin, not including Crossbones. I can't watch the place at all hours, but even so, I haven't been able to figure out how the extra bodies slipped past me. Something _is_ going on here, something we can't see from the outside. You get a bad feeling in there…"

You roll your eyes and shift, a little amused as she jerks away from the ripple of smoke. The change complete, Natasha now looms above you.

"Huh," she grunts. "You are kinda cute, for vermin."

You sneeze and scurry forward to start packing half the equipment into the pliant space between your jaws and your cheeks, the skin stretching over the little bundles of Stark tech until you can't fit any more. You estimated correctly; roughly half are still laid out on the ground.

"Well now you're just adorable," Natasha laughs, and the vibrations sound like Lambeg drums booming in your ears. You run in a counter-clockwise circle, twice, signaling that you're ready to leave.

"Good luck," the redheaded spy says, lowering her voice to something just above a whisper. "And don't get killed. Barnes will murder me and then Steve, and Steve is too pretty to die."

You sneeze again and dart off into the snow, your lightweight body almost floating along the surface as you shoot from crevice to crevice, allowing the rat's instinctive wariness to bubble up from beneath your own conscious mind. There are actual owls and foxes in this valley, and you'd _really_ hate to have to de-morph with a mouth full of miniature cameras to beat one of the poor beasties off of you.

The distance from Natasha's position on Devils Thumb to the cabin is not insignificant, and your legs are _very_ short, relatively speaking. But the rat is all about being quick, and you manage to cross the distance in a matter of hours (a slight detour had to be taken after a very skinny Canadian Lynx caught your scent and started stalking you through the snowbanks).

The cabin is a ramshackle thing that looks as though a single strong wind will knock it down. It barely seems able to fit two or three people comfortably, but you figure Hydra isn't all that concerned with the comfort of its agents. There will likely be bunked cots and the barest utilities inside. This is a fallback position, not a ski lodge.

Nose twitching, you run the perimeter of the cabin four times, hesitant to enter until you have a better idea of where the occupants are (and exactly how many of them are nearby). Scrambling up on several snow-covered crates stacked against the western-facing wall, you stretch up on your hind legs to peek through a dirty window.

_Three inside_, you note. _Soldier types, like Natasha reported_.

A larger figure passes into view and the rumble of his voice makes the glass of the window vibrate. You duck down, calming the rodent's fluttering heart.

_Scars_, you tell yourself. _From a fire, or acid?_

Despite the below freezing temperatures, Crossbones has entered the small room in tactical gear _not_ suited for the climate.

_Something _isn't_ adding up here_.

"Going out," he tells the other men in the room. "Got an itch that needs scratching."

_Whatever that means_.

You drop down off of the crates, squeezing yourself between them and the cabin wall. The door opens and the sniper steps out, having put on a heavy winter coat, face mask, and goggles. He pulls the fur-lined hood of his coat up around his head and secures it in place against the blast of frigid Arctic air howling across the mountain from the north.

In moments, he's disappeared into the snow, heading east with an impressive looking rifle slung over his shoulder. Barnes would have been able to tell you exactly what kind it is, all of its capabilities, and whether or not he thinks it's worth a damn.

_Looking for dinner?_ You wonder, peering into the space where the man had stood a moment before. _Would need the Devil's own luck to find anything in this storm. _

With only three confirmed operatives still left inside the cabin, you figure now or never, and circle back to a rear door you spotted on your first perimeter check. The cabin might have been well-built in its heyday, but now there are substantial cracks where it ought to be sealed tight against the wet and cold. The rat, like most of its kind, can fit its entire body through any space it can squeeze its skull through. Tiny, delicate bones are outnumbered by sturdy cartilage, allowing you to flatten yourself out and shimmy into and through places that ought to be impossible.

You find the largest gap, where the bottom corner of the door has worn away against the frame, and press through, feeling the cameras and mics stored in your cheek pouches shift against eachother. They are the least forgiving bits of this equation, and you remind yourself to be careful. It would be a colossal waste of time and energy to crush the damn things before even getting inside.

You move slowly, pausing every few seconds to _listen_ and _smell_ and _watch_ for any unwanted interest from the men inside. It isn't likely that they'll notice you, but people—even Hydra soldiers, you wager—tend to react in a singular fashion when confronted with a rat, and you'd really like to avoid being blown apart with buckshot if possible.

Barnes would never let you live it down. Also, it would probably hurt, your body's ability to undo damage and quickly switch off pain receptors be damned.

Regardless of what you've told James before, you don't _enjoy_ being shot, or burned, broken, or generally damaged in a critical way. It may not kill you, or hurt for longer than a few seconds, but you still carry the memory of each catastrophic injury, and they're hardly fodder for the kind of wacky, bizarre tales told around campfires when people who participate in the same "extra-curricular activities" (as Fury once put it) get together. For some reason, swapping stories about that time you got blown up, or had to wade into a toxic chemical spill to snatch some stupid goddamn MacGuffin out of the hands of a halfwit with an Evil Mastermind complex, or closed your fists and curled yourself around a live grenade to absorb most of the blast in order to keep your students _safe_, just isn't done. People can be so _sensitive_.

After several interminably long minutes, you manage to squeeze yourself through, immediately scrambling for the nearest dark corner, once again allowing the rat's instincts to override your own. It knows how to hide, how to remain unseen and unnoticed better than you do.

The floor vibrates (like an earthquake as far as you're concerned) as one of the goons crosses the short length of the room, heading towards the door.

"What's up, Turk?" one of the others asks. "Still seeing ghosts?"

"Shut the fuck up, Chapel. There was someone up there."

"Probably a granola-head," the man called Chapel replies. "You're freaking out about nothing. No one knows we're here."

"Rumlow doesn't think so," Turk snaps. "This is his third patrol in as many hours. He knows something is up."

"Just how he is," Chapel says. "He's still sore over the failed mission in New York."

_Bingo_.

"Whatever. I thought I saw a shadow at the door," Turk states, toeing the damp, rough wood boards near the rear entrance.

"Must be Captain fucking America come to finish us off," the third man laughs. He has an accent, though you can't quite place it. South African, maybe?

"You're both assholes," Turk grumbles before returning to the other end of the cabin, resuming his participation in what appears to be a poker game.

"You're only mad because you're down a couple hundred," the third man says. "Don't take it out on us."

"Well seeing as how I'm really fucking concerned about sparing your feelings," Turk snarls, "I'll try to ease up on you ladies. Don't want you to wet your panties over it."

"Hail Hydra," Chapel sneers before all three men start laughing.

It's strange, observing the scene. If they weren't part of a tech-obsessed Nazi Death Cult bent on world domination, you might mistake them for any group of bored (if foul-mouthed) security guards, trying to pass the time with card games and insults.

_These are the kinds of men who kept Barnes in a freezer_, you remind yourself. _They stood and watched as he was beaten, as his mind was shattered and scorched bare._

For the briefest moment, you consider shifting into something huge and predatory. A burst of smoke would be their only warning, and then you'd be ripping through their weak, fleshy bodies with jaws strong enough to crush bone, claws like meat hooks pinning and scoring through muscle as though it were little more than wet tissue paper. The rat twitches, frightened by the violent thoughts that are so foreign to its own natural pattern of _hide_-_sneak-run-freeze_.

_Breathe_, you command. _Remember the mission._

Having once again established control, you dart under a three-legged stool stacked with ammunition cartridges and disassembled gun parts. Something else to help pass the time, you figure, while they… what? Babysit Crossbones?

_Still don't have enough pieces of the puzzle to make out the larger picture_, you observe. _But seriously, what the _hell_ is going on here?_

You pull one of the cameras out of your mouth and with tiny paws, peel the bit of paper away from the sticky pad at the bottom before pressing it against one of the legs of the stool. A small vibration passes through the delicate-looking machine and then the aperture inside the lens twists, focusing first on you, then on the room beyond. The surface of the camera shimmers for a second then adopts the color and texture of the stool. More shielding (Tony, you goddamn genius). They must activate automatically once mounted.

Carefully, and only moving when the men grow particularly loud or caught up in their card game, you plant the remaining cameras and microphones, always keeping in mind Natasha's instructions about keeping them away from the occupants' line-of-sight.

You're making your way back to the rear door when a commotion outside causes you to freeze in your tracks. You press your body against the nearest wall, tensing as the front door is kicked open by a boot-clad foot.

"Get the fuck inside, you Russian bitch!"

Rumlow, _Crossbones_, is back, and he has Natasha by the hair, throwing her across the room where she smashes into the opposite wall with a sickening _crunch_.

_Not good_, you think as the rat's body starts to tremble.

Natasha tries to get her feet under her, but is swiftly pinned by the Hydra goon squad. Her face is a swollen mass of bruises and lacerations. It looks like she took a tumble down half the goddamn mountain, though—to her credit—Crossbones doesn't look much better.

"Found your ghost," Rumlow tells Turk. "Scratched that itch."

"What are your orders, Sir?" Turk asks, smirking at his comrades as his suspicions are proven correct.

"Take her downstairs…" Crossbones answers.

_Downstairs?!_

"Then we ditch this fucking cabin and use The Bypass—" the capitalization is clear in his inflection "—and we move out to Romeo-12. Cap can't be far behind, and you can be damn sure he'll come looking for her."

Natasha is wheezing hard, and you can see frothy pink foam at the edges of her bloodied lips.

_Punctured lung_. _Shit. Shitshitshit._

"You bet your flame-broiled ass he will," she stutters, spitting a gummy wad of blood onto the floor. "And I'm going to laugh when he smashes your face in."

Rumlow cocks his right arm back and slams his fist into her stomach. She lurches over before being hauled upright again.

A decision is made in that moment, and you know that you have no choice; that despite Barnes' repeated warnings, you're going to have to do _something_, because you don't think you can live with yourself if you let these monsters drag Natasha off to God-knows-where.

_Tiger is too big, even the smaller subspecies. Not enough room to move. Stick with felids though, their speed will work to your advantage. Jaguar? No. Too much bulk. Leopard? Yes. An Amur. Jaguar does have a stronger bite. Can't sacrifice the speed though. Shit._

Smoke starts to curl up around you.

"Don't you dare," Natasha says, eyes darting to your hiding space just long enough for you to notice, before locking eyes with Rumlow, "do that again."

None of the Hydra operatives spare you a single glance, all of them so focused on Natasha and her stubborn refusal to _be quiet_ that your aborted transformation goes unnoticed. You're convinced the first part of her demand was aimed at you, it had to be, though you can't fathom why she would want to keep you from intervening. You remember what Barnes had said about the things Hydra would do to anyone they captured and you're sure Natasha is keenly aware of the same.

"What did I tell you about shutting that pretty mouth of yours, Red?" Rumlow sneers. "Get her moving!" he barks at his subordinates.

The man whose name you never learned releases his grip on Natasha and smacks an outdated, yellowed calendar off of the wall, revealing a small keypad mounted behind it. He punches the buttons several times in quick succession, and the weak eyes of the rat can't quite make out the series.

"We're gonna take a little walk now, honey," the scarred assassin croons, pinching Nat's jaw between his thumb and pointer finger.

"Lead the way," she spits, and then more loudly. "**I'll be sure to follow**."

_Another set of instructions_.

Rumlow squints at her, then scans the room.

"You bug my bungalow, Red?" he asks, tilting her chin up until her neck strains from the uncomfortable stretch. "You trying to tell your friends where you're headed?"

"идут в ад," she spits, jerking her head out of his grasp.

He laughs, and the sound is dead in his throat, an bad imitation of amusement.

"Fucking prophetic, Widow. See, that's_ exactly_ where we're headed. And your boyfriend ain't gonna find you. Not until I lay your bones on his doorstep."

The floor beneath the card table retracts into the earth while the worn pieces of furniture remain standing, and it's only now that you notice each one is touching a section of the wall.

_Must be bolted on_, you figure. _Stupid to have missed it. Lazy!_

Rumlow motions for the others to take Natasha down the now exposed passageway. They shove her down the narrow stone steps which appear to have been carved straight into the mountain.

"Don't worry, sweetness, I won't be far behind," he promises, a twisted grin on his face.

Once they disappear below, Rumlow scans the room again but doesn't spare much time searching for the spy equipment he's sure Romanoff has planted. Instead, he grabs a small black box off of one of the shelves and flips its clear plastic cover off onto the floor.

"Shame," he says, moving to the secret staircase and quickly descending. "I was starting to like this piece of shit cabin."

You scramble after him, the rat's instincts screaming that something terrible is about to happen, something that will most certainly kill it. You stick as close to Rumlow's heels as possible, afraid that he might take one more look behind him and catch sight of you. A single stomp from one of those booted feet on your head or neck (or any part of you, really), and you'll be in for a world of hurt.

The panel that had kept the passage hidden slides shut, and you're temporarily swallowed up by complete darkness. One of the Hydra agents escorting Natasha somewhere ahead of and below you cries out.

"Bitch _bit_ me. Bit my ear off!"

Rumlow snickers.

"What the hell was your face doing so close to her mouth, Turk?"

"It's fucking dark, Sir!"

"Stop your whining or I'll feed you a bullet," Crossbones growls. He presses another button on the black box and soft lights flicker to life, outlining the stairs and the downward sloping ceiling overhead. "There, you got your nightlight. Now keep moving. Sooner we have Red in chains, the better. And keep your delicate bits _away_ from her teeth, you idiot."

As you follow the group down into the cold depths of the mountain, you start to make out an electric blue glow ahead of Natasha and her handlers. Something sizzles in the air, like the ions are supercharged, making all the fur on your body stand up on end.

Everyone finally reaches the bottom of the stone stairs and then move into a second room, one framed by a foot-thick reinforced steel door. You scurry under their feet, cursing yourself as you feel your tail brush against someone's leg.

"Shit!" Turk yelps.

The fear of being caught is overwhelming, but Natasha taps her foot once and you dash to her, mentally apologizing as your tiny claws search for purchase against the skin of her ankle, eventually turning to clutch at the heat-retaining space-age material of her pants. You hold on for dear life, praying no one notices.

"What now?" Rumlow demands. "She bite you again?"

"No," the Hydra operative answers. "I think there's a goddamn mouse down here. Or a rat."

"I'm becoming more convinced that a lead sandwich might do you some good, soldier," Rumlow taunts. "You gonna climb onto a chair and hold your skirt up while the menfolk hunt the little fucker down?"

"No, Sir," Turk manages.

Rumlow grunts and then you hear the squeal of metal as someone (probably him) pulls the heavy steel door shut. Gears click into place somewhere within the structure of the room.

"Positive seal," Chapel reports. "Clear to proceed."

A high-pitched tone buzzes in your head and then far above, back on the surface, something rocks the earth, and though you can't see it from your place of safety inside Natasha's pants (_Dear Penthouse Forum…_), you can hear the soft shower of pulverized stone as it rains down.

_An explosion? Did he blow up the cabin to cover his tracks? The entire tunnel maybe?_

You decide it's probably the latter, because you don't figure Hydra to do anything halfway. They've sealed off your only known means of escape, and blocked both Rogers and Barnes from the most direct route to your position.

_Goddamn, shit, he was fucking right, I'm such an idiot, and we're both goners_.

"Get her through the Bypass. I want us protected from any of their spook bullshit," Rumlow orders. "We know they've got some kind of working relationship with those creepy bastards in Westchester, and I don't care how goddamn ridiculous it sounds, if Command thinks they've got _psychics_ working for them, I'm going to follow protocol."

"Freaks," the probably South African snarls. "You really think some magic metal they convinced that old Jew to install is going to stop a mind reader?"

"Command thinks so, so I think so," Rumlow says. "And more importantly, _you_ think so because I'm telling you to."

"The look on his face when they showed him the video feed of his brats was priceless," Turk snickers. "_Age of Miracles_ my ass."

They all start moving forward again, closer to the source of the prickle of energy racing up and down your spine.

"What is that?" Natasha asks.

"The Bypass," Rumlow answers. "Nice little project Selvig completed while working for Loki. Very considerate of S.H.I.E.L.D. to box it up for us. Might as well have wrapped it in a bow."

She's shoved forward again, and you feel a flash of heat pass through you. The air pressure changes and you know that you're much further underground.

"Welcome home, _Natalia_," Rumlow croons.

_Home?_

"What are you talking about?" Natasha manages.

"Exactly what I said," he rumbles, mockery layered on thick. "Welcome. Home."

Natasha sucks in a shuddering breath and the realization hits you just a moment after.

_Oh no. _

_Oh nonononono._

Russia.

They've somehow transported you both to_ Russia_.

-To Be Continued-


End file.
